


Double Trouble

by Buckeye01



Series: Double Trouble [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Musketeers are on a dangerous mission to escort a decoy king, an idea of King Louis XIII.  The mission is cursed  from the beginning as each of the four Musketeers are embroiled in a fight of their lives; and for some of them, a fight for their very survival.  None of them make it through this mission from hell unscathed--it will forever be etched in their memories as the worst mission ever. Unfortunately, this mission has dire and deadly consequences.</p><p>Prequel/background on my drabble story <em>Cheating</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Headache

The annoying sound of a nearby rooster drilled its way into Athos’ subconscious, “go ‘way,” he grumbled. 

He threw an arm over his eyes as the morning sunlight streamed through the window causing him to wince. His throbbing head felt thick and heavy after losing himself to too many bottles of wine the night before. 

“God,” Athos moaned as he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He buried his face in his hands, propping himself upright with his elbows planted on his knees. He soon slipped back into slumber still sitting in the upright position. 

Athos was jolted awake when Aramis and Porthos burst into the room, expecting to find their leader dressed and ready to leave. Instead, they found him looking like death warmed over.

“What's wrong, Athos?” Porthos said, exchanging a worried glance with Aramis. 

“Go ‘way, leave me ‘lone,” Athos mumbled. He didn’t move--except for the circular motion of his fingers as he tried to massage away the pain in his temples.

“Have a few too many last night?” Aramis joked, trying to lighten the mood in the room. 

The poor attempt at humor elicited an angry ‘if-looks-could-kill’ stare from Athos—an unspoken warning to both Musketeers to think twice before uttering any further comments about his condition.

Walking to the bed, Aramis placed a hand on Athos’ forehead to check his temperature, only to have his hand rudely slapped away. “I’m not sick!” Athos growled.

“Then stop acting like it,” Aramis retorted, losing his patience. “Get dressed; we’re going to be late.” Aramis stood firm with crossed arms, staring down at the pathetic sight in front of him.

“You two go on without me,” Athos said. “No sense you being late on account of me.” The musketeer had made no attempt to get up but still sat resting with his face buried in his hands. 

“We’re not goin’ anywhere, brother.” Porthos stepped forward to stand by Aramis, “not without you. So, you might as well get up…we ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til, you do.”

Athos sighed, “damn the both of you. . . stubborn, thick-headed. . .”

“We’re stubborn and thick-headed? Aramis repeated, astonished. “Porthos and I put together, combined with our young Gascon, d’Artagnan, pale in comparison to the stubbornness of you, dear brother.” With eyebrows raised, head cocked to the side, Aramis almost dared Athos to deny the claim. 

Athos sighed, but said nothing more. He was not in the mood for an argument right now and felt it best to let the matter drop. In certain cases, it is more honorable to concede in an argument rather than appear a fool. Athos knew Aramis was right--but he wasn’t going to admit it. 

Athos dropped to his knees in front of the bucket of water and placed his hands on the edge. He took in a long and deep breath, exhaling before dunking his head into the ice cold liquid. The shock of the cold water made Athos gasp and, forgetting that he was under water—upside down—caused him to choke. He raised his head up gasping, gurgling, and sputtering with water spraying out from both his nose and mouth. 

Aramis was at his side instantly, putting one arm around his chest and another on his back for support, holding him upright. “It’s okay,” he consoled, “I’ve got you.” He pounded on Athos’ back, helping the man clear the water from his lungs as he gasped for air. “Just breathe slowly,” he instructed.

“Breathe in and out, slowly,” Aramis coached Athos until he could get his breathing under control. Finally when the choking slowed and turned into just an occasional cough, Aramis noticed his friend turning green. “Are you going to be sick?” he asked. “Porthos, find something. . . quick!”

Porthos frantically looked around the room, finding an empty bowl on the table. He got the bowl under Athos just as a rainbow mix of water and wine gushed out, splashing over the edge. Athos gagged and heaved until nothing was left to bring up. His stomach muscles ached after violently retching last night’s indulgence. The humiliating ordeal left him weak and with his head pounding even worse than before. 

Aramis gently wiped around Athos’ mouth and chin with a towel. He took a cup of water offered by Porthos and held it to the sick man’s lips, “take a small sip,” he instructed. “Rinse, now spit,” he waited for Athos to finish before wiping at his mouth once again.

Taking the towel, Aramis rubbed it through Athos’ still-dripping wet hair, carefully pushing the wet locks away from the face and out of his friend’s eyes. He then patted dry the water running down his neck, chest, and back. He watched with concern as pain flashed across Athos’ face, causing him to grimace. “What’s wrong?” Aramis asked. “Is your head hurting?”

Athos nods his head, “it feels like someone is pummeling my brain.” He closed his eyes, taking in several deep calming breaths before opening them again, slowly. Athos looked up at Porthos watching him, “what are you doing just standing there?” he said, with the hint of a smile. “Help me get dressed so we can go,” he told him, scanning the room for his boots. “Where the hell did I leave my boots?”

Aramis appeared with both boots in hand, “you looking for these?” he smiled. The smile soon disappeared from Aramis’ face when he noticed Athos squinting with pain at the light coming through the window. _This is not good,_ Aramis thought quietly. 

“We need to stop by my apartment before heading to the garrison,” Aramis said. “I have some feverfew I can give you, it’ll help take care of that killer headache,” he told Athos. “Also, you need to get something to eat—an empty belly isn’t going to help you any.” Aramis turned to Porthos, “help me get him up on the bed.” Both men raised Athos up by the arms, easily lifting him onto the edge of the bed, so Aramis could slip on the boots. 

Porthos brought Athos’ doublet and began helping his friend get dressed. The challenge of getting Athos’ arms into the sleeves proved more difficult than the larger man had the patience for. “Stand up, will ya,” Porthos said, sounding a tad more irritated than he intended. He pulled the sick man clumsily to his feet, “let’s get this buttoned up so we can go eat. I’m starving, and if you make me miss breakfast you’ll have more than just a headache,” he winked.

Aramis had Athos’ belt, weapons and sword ready, assisting his friend as needed. “I think that’s everything,” he said, taking one last look around.

Tired from the exertion, Athos’ face now glistened in a sheen of sweat, his unruly hair plastered to his forehead. “Where the hell is my hat?” he growled. 

Porthos smiled, handing over the hat, “thought you might need this.”

Athos roughly grabbed the hat from the larger man’s hand, “hmf,” he snorted. Jamming the hat down on his head, Athos pulled it low over his eyes, “let’s get this over with.”

The trio stopped by Aramis’ room to pick up the medicine. They proceeded on, deciding to eat at the garrison, arriving just as the other Musketeers had finished cleaning up after breakfast. 

Porthos shook his head, punching his fist in his other hand repeatedly. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at Athos, “remember what I said I’d do if I missed breakfast?”

“Go get some breakfast, gentlemen,” the captain ordered, tersely. “You have exactly fifteen minutes to be back in the yard for muster.

“I’m not hungry,” Athos muttered under his breath.

Seeing the condition of his lieutenant, Captain Tréville shook his head in disappointment. “That was not a request, Athos,” he said in a commanding tone. “You have fifteen minutes till muster,” he repeated his orders.

“Let’s go, no time to waste.” Aramis pulled Athos by the arm in quick retreat. “I told you,” he whispered, “you need to eat. I’ll make this feverfew with some tea and you’ll feel a lot better. Now, don’t argue with me,” he scolded.

“I think the captain’s upset wit' us for being late,” Porthos said. “No need to give ‘im any more reason to be angry, we cannot be late again.” Porthos walked ahead, grumbling to himself. “I hate not havin’ enough time to chew my food and enjoy it.”

D’Artagnan was surprised to witness the unusual scene taking place between his three brothers and the captain. He followed behind his friends to the kitchen, waiting until they were out of the captain’s sight, before inquiring why they were late. “What is going on?” he asked Aramis.

Aramis shook his head, “long story,” he said. “He’ll be alright once he gets something to eat,” motioning with his head in the direction of Athos.

D’Artagnan took a good look at his mentor then turned back to Aramis, his eyes conveying a silent message of understanding. The young Gascon instantly knew why Athos was late, given the lieutenant’s disheveled, pale and sickly appearance.

Porthos shook his head in quiet warning to d’Artagnan, just as the younger man was about to open his mouth to question Athos. The Gascon scowled, _Why would Athos show up late and so hungover? Especially before an important mission! This is not like him at all._

As if reading d’Artagnan’s mind, Porthos whispered a warning to the younger man, “if you value your health, let the matter drop. Don’t ask questions.”

Disappointed, d’Artagnan decided to drop the subject--for now. Instead, he filled the latecomers in on the morning chore list and soldier gossip while they ate breakfast. 

Their fifteen minutes nearly up, the men quickly made their way to the courtyard, taking their position in formation. 

Captain Tréville stood on the balcony as he observed the company of Musketeers standing at attention before him. He drummed his fingers on the railing, quietly gathering his thoughts before beginning his disciplinary speech.

“We are currently preparing for a very important mission tomorrow. At all times, but especially now, I fully expect the King’s Musketeers to be professional. I expect my Musketeers to always strive to be the best that they can be, to always be in excellent shape, ready to do their duty as soldiers. As your captain, I expect my men to be here on time for duty. If you are not present for duty, I expect a valid explanation for your absence.” The captain paused, watching three of his best Musketeers fidget slightly, knowing full well they were the reason for this lecture.

“Eight of you men have already been assigned the details of the mission tomorrow and should know exactly what is expected of you. I want both groups in my office for final briefings, at your assigned time. Am I clear?” the captain waited for acknowledgement from the company before continuing. 

“Most of you have received your assignments and chores for the day, so get started immediately. Dismissed,” the captain ordered brusquely.

The Musketeers left formation quietly, each not wanting to test the captain’s temper. Some of the men shook their heads, quietly muttering to themselves, while others glared at the three men who caused the harsh rebuke. 

“Athos,” the captain called from the balcony, “in my office now.”

Athos swallowed hard. He knew his superior held him to higher standards, expecting him as lieutenant to be an example to the men. However, yesterday was the anniversary of his brother’s death. He revealed to no one his personal secret, but deep inside he was hurting—grieving—making the day especially hard to deal with. Athos just couldn’t help himself; he did the only thing he knew how to drown the grief. Yesterday, he needed an escape from the pain, and today? Well, today, he just didn’t give a damn.

Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan exchanged worried looks of concern for their friend. They each watched with heavy hearts as their brother and leader quietly went up the stairs to the captain’s office. The door was closed, shutting out prying eyes and ears.


	2. The Reprimand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos is called in to the captain's office to face reprimand...and then it's Aramis' turn. They have an important mission to think about, but one of the musketeers may be removed for disciplinary reasons. Will Captain Tréville be too harsh on the boys? Find out how one musketeer defends the other, despite his faults.

Athos stood at attention in front of Captain Tréville’s desk, waiting for his superior’s reprimand. The headache that had disappeared with breakfast was quickly returning in full force, but he secretly endured it.

Finally, Tréville turned around to look at the Musketeer in front of him. He took notice of the pale complexion, sweaty sheen of Athos’ face, and the disheveled uniform. The captain shook his head in disappointment. 

“Tomorrow morning, you were to lead group one escorting the king’s double to Château de Blois,” said the captain, his tone serious. “Now, judging by your appearance, I am seriously considering removing you from this mission.” 

The words spoken by his captain hit Athos hard, stunning him. He forced himself to remain on his feet as he blinked back the darkness threatening the edges of his vision. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, determined to not lose his breakfast in front of the captain. 

The captain noticed his Musketeer grow pale at the harsh words. The slight wobble to the man’s stance may have gone unnoticed to anyone else, but it didn’t get past Tréville. “Sit down, before you fall down.” 

Unsure of how much longer he could have remained upright, Athos gratefully took a seat.

“What am I to do with you?” the captain worried. “I have long tolerated your indulgence in wine because, until now, you have never allowed it to interfere with the performance of your duty. I have always been able to count on you to do your job as expected. Any other man in your position would have been fired long ago from the Musketeers.” The captain watched as Athos winced at his candor.

“As you well know, for this mission I need eight of my best Musketeers. Unfortunately, at this point I do not have the time to replace you on such short notice.”

Athos remained quiet, his face void of emotion.

“You are confined to the garrison until morning; you are not allowed to leave this post for any reason.” Captain Tréville sat on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. He watched his lieutenant for a moment before continuing, “and you are not allowed any alcohol. Period. I want you sober in the morning.”

The captain stood, moving directly in front of Athos’ line of vision. “I expect all of my Musketeers to be mentally sharp and physically prepared for duty at all times—you are no exception. King Louis is expecting his Musketeers to safely escort him and, in your case, his decoy, and we will not fail him.” 

Athos nodded.

“I want you cleaned up,” the captain looked over his lieutenant’s appearance and frowned. “I will summon the barber to the garrison, seeing that you need a haircut and trim. I will send Aramis to fetch your clean clothes and uniform, and more medicine for that headache.”

Athos lifted his eyebrows in surprise. _The captain knows me all too well_ , he thought.

“I will not have my Musketeers escorting the king looking like a vagabond or a drunkard. You will appear as the professional soldier I know you are--no exceptions. Am I clear?” 

“Yes sir, very clear” Athos answered.

“Dismissed.” The captain stood to move back to his seat behind the desk. “Oh, send Aramis in next please,” he said, not bothering to look up from his paperwork.

Athos rose from his seat with a nod, making for a quick retreat. He shut the door, letting out a long sigh of relief.

 _Thank God that’s over_ , he thought. “Damn, I need a drink!” he grumbled. Athos descended the stairs and set out looking for Aramis. He could feel everyone watching him but he averted his eyes, keeping his head low. 

Three anxious Musketeers jumped to their feet at seeing Athos coming toward them.

“What happened up there?” d’Artagnan was first to ask. 

Athos shook his head, continuing to walk past the group. “Oh,” he glanced sideways at Aramis, “the captain wants to see you.”

“He wants to see me?” Aramis pointed to himself in surprise, his eyebrows disappearing under the soft grey hat. “What did I do?” he looked at Athos, worried.

Athos shrugged and walked away, avoiding further questions. The brooding man was not in the mood for conversation, wanting just to be left alone. He made his way to the barracks, finding an open bunk, he lay down. He pulled his hat down over his face, and soon he fell into a restful sleep.

*****

Aramis knocked lightly on the door to Captain Tréville’s office.

“Come,” the man inside said.

Aramis steeled himself before stepping inside. He stood in front of the captain’s desk, waiting to learn why he was summoned.

“Relax, Aramis,” the captain soothed, “you are not being counseled. I summoned you because I want your assistance in a matter.” The captain stopped his paperwork for the moment to focus on Aramis.

Aramis raised his eyebrows, curious, but remained quiet.

“I know Athos is drunk,” the captain began. “I also know his drunkenness is the reason you were late for duty this morning. I do not fault you, or Porthos, for helping your fellow Musketeer.” 

The captain rubbed at his temples, feeling a bad headache coming on. “The undue stress some of you men put on me,” the captain mumbled under his breath. “It will be the death of me yet.”

“Captain, I still have some medicine, some feverfew in my bag, to take care of that headache.” Aramis offered with concern.

“Thank you, Aramis, but Athos needs it more than I do.”

“Sir. . . ?”

The captain held up his hand to stop Aramis. “I know Athos is suffering from a headache,” he shook his head. I need him physically fit, alert, and ready to lead the mission by morning. However, he cannot lead if he is hungover. If Athos is not ready tomorrow, I will have you lead the group in his place,” the captain deadpanned.

Aramis was stunned. “Sir, you know that Athos is the best man to lead this mission—hangover or not.”

The captain sat for a moment thinking, quietly scrubbing a hand over his face. “Aramis, you are an outstanding soldier and a fine Musketeer. You are the kind of soldier a captain needs to have under his command. You are fully capable of leading any mission assigned to the Musketeers. Don’t sell yourself short, son.” The captain looked at Aramis with an almost fatherly affection.

“Thank you, sir,” Aramis said, blushing slightly. “I appreciate your confidence in me, but my place is serving at Athos’ side.”

Aramis had such confidence in Athos that he would follow his brother to Hell, if he asked. If necessary, he was willing to stake his own reputation and honor in support of him. “Captain, Athos will be ready to lead this mission. I guarantee it.”

Captain Tréville nodded, “okay, it’s settled then.” As one of his best Musketeers, Aramis’ opinion was highly respected by the captain. If Aramis believed Athos would be ready then he had no cause for concern. 

The captain still had one more issue at hand; one that he knew would not be an easy matter to broach. He stood from his chair, pacing behind the desk. “Alright, Athos will lead,” he turned to face Aramis, “but I have ordered him confined to the garrison until morning. He is not to leave quarters for any reason. Since you are together in group one, I want you, Porthos, and d’Artagnan to stay here in garrison with Athos. . . keep an eye on him,” the captain added. 

Aramis narrowed his eyes at the mere suggestion of keeping an eye on Athos. “Athos doesn’t need, or want, a nursemaid, he’s a grown man, fully capable of taking care of himself.” Aramis knew his brother musketeer well enough to understand he would never accept, nor appreciate, three nursemaids playing mother hen as they hovered over him. 

“That is not what I meant, Aramis,” the captain shook his head. “I know that Athos does not need a nursemaid, but he does need watching over. Something is bothering him, something deep down inside he won’t reveal to anyone. When he gets in those dark moods, he withdraws. . . taking only the bottle with him.” 

The captain knew that the Musketeers, especially the _Inseparables_ and d’Artagnan, would do anything for each other. They would bend over backwards to help one another, each willing to die to protect or save the other. Perhaps what none of them were willing to admit, however, is that sometimes what Athos needed most was protection from himself.

Tréville continued, “Athos is forbidden to consume any alcohol the remainder of today and tonight. So I say again, it is a good idea to keep an eye on him."

 _Alright, that’s even worse_ , Aramis thought. If Athos suspected his brother Musketeers are keeping company with him simply to spy on him, well, that could turn ugly. Aramis shook his head, “we are not going to spy on Athos on the outside chance that he has a bottle of wine stashed, hidden somewhere in the barracks.”

“I did not ask you to spy on him, Aramis, but simply to keep an eye on him; make sure he does not leave, make sure he does not harm himself. I’ve said before,” the captain clarified, “when he gets in those dark moods he tends to drown himself in wine. There is no telling what he’ll do, or where he’ll go, to forget the pain that gnaws at him."

“Considering the mission tomorrow, I do not suspect that Athos will be any trouble. However,” the captain added in a serious tone, “I am putting you in charge, Aramis, of making sure that Athos complies with all of my orders.”

Aramis believed in Athos; he’d defend Athos’ ability as a Musketeer until his own dying breath. “Captain, Athos will comply to your wishes--but not because of me.”

Aramis shook his head, “you don’t understand, do you? Sir, the respect and confidence of his captain means more to Athos than his own reputation and personal honor. If he doesn’t have your confidence in him as a Musketeer, as your lieutenant, then he has nothing—he would rather die.” 

Captain Tréville quietly pondered what Aramis said of his second in command, feeling honored that Athos would think so highly of him. The captain softened his tone, “I want you, Porthos, and d’Artagnan to go pick up clean linens and uniforms for each of you and for Athos. I want all of you to look your best tomorrow, understood?”

“Yes sir,” Aramis answered.

“Good,” the captain answered. “I also want you to pick up more feverfew for Athos. Bring along plenty, enough to last the entire trip, he may need it.”

“Yes sir,” Aramis repeated.

“There is no further need for your group to be briefed later, I have complete confidence you will fulfill your mission as expected,” Tréville smiled. "Now, go get those things I requested and then you may relax,” he said. “I will see you in the morning.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed,” the captain nodded.

*****

Aramis left the captain’s office on a mission to find Athos. He came across his two companions sparring with each other in the courtyard. “Have you seen Athos?” he asked.

“Last I saw ‘im he was in the barracks,” answered Porthos. “You were up there a long time, ‘Mis. Is everything okay? I mean, does the cap’n want to see me next?” The larger man asked anxiously.

“No,” Aramis smiled. He motioned with his head for his friends to follow, “I do need you two to come with me, though. We have a small assignment from the captain. But first, I want to find Athos to make sure he’s okay.” Aramis was worried for his friend. He hasn’t seen Athos since he came out of Tréville’s office looking a little discouraged. He needed to ease his own mind, make sure he was okay. . .and make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be. 

It didn’t take long to find their missing leader sleeping soundly in the barracks. The hat had slipped off Athos’ face as he had turned onto his side. He looked so peaceful that Aramis didn’t have the heart to wake him.

“Let him sleep,” Aramis whispered. “This is probably the first peaceful sleep he’s had in days. With Athos leading the mission tomorrow, he’s going to need all the rest he can get.” Muttering under his breath, “there’s something about this mission that seems off, I can’t put my finger on it.” 

Nagging feelings of dread were starting to take root but he couldn’t explain why. Not wanting to cause undue worry, he kept his thoughts to himself. After all, they were probably just the typical anxieties before a covert mission. But still, he thought, _I have a bad feeling about this_. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend for this chapter to focus just on Athos and Aramis but that's the way it worked out. Most of this chapter (if acted out on our favorite BBC TV show) I think, would be very difficult to watch. I know I would be very uncomfortable having to see my favorite musketeers get raked over the coals in such a reprimand. Next chapter, our boys begin the mission... _I have a bad feeling about this!_  
>  Please leave a comment!


	3. The Ruse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the day of the planned mission has arrived, but who came up with the idea for this charade and why?  
> Now that the mission is underway, the musketeers are finding out what a bad idea it really was. . . but it's too late to turn back now.  
> How dangerous can it be escorting a decoy king? Very dangerous!

“Stop pounding in my head, damn you,” Athos mumbled to himself.

Aramis looked over at the form of Athos writhing on his bunk, hands gripping his head. “Athos, wake up,” he whispered, trying not to wake the others. “You’re having a bad dream.”

“I am awake,” Athos growled, still holding his head.

“Who ya talkin’ to, then?” Porthos chimed in.

“The little guy in my head with the sledgehammer,” Athos complained. “He’s sadistic and relentless. . .”

“Who’s sadistic and relentless?” D’Artagnan queried from two bunks away.

“What is this. . . an interroga..‘n?” Athos grumbled, his voice being muffled by his pillow. “You’re supposed to be sleeping," the irritated man sat up on his bunk, slapping his knee in frustration. "Dammit, I can't sleep!"

“How can anyone sleep when you’re makin’ so much noise?” Porthos asked sleepily with a yawn.

Ignoring Porthos, “do you have any more of that medicine?” Athos asked Aramis lying on the bunk beside him. “Better yet, a bottle of wine to kill this headache?”

“A bottle of wine won’t help you, my friend. In fact, it’s the last thing you need.” Aramis sat up, looking at his friend closely. He reached into his satchel, rummaging through until he found the bag of feverfew. The medic crinkled his nose at the potent odor wafting upwards as he loosed the drawstrings of the bag.

“I wouldn’t recommend chewing this raw, normally, but the sooner you ingest this the faster it’ll combat that headache.” He leaned over to hand a few leaves to Athos, who was now cradling his head in his hands.

“This is very bitter to the taste, so chew and swallow quickly,” Aramis instructed. “It might burn or blister the inside of your mouth. . . which is why it’s better to take with food or drink.” 

Aramis noted the dry expression on Athos’ face at the mention of the obvious. “Sorry,” Aramis shrugged sheepishly.

Athos took the leaves, popped them in his mouth and began chewing. He scowled immediately at the taste, his face twisting into a grimace the longer he chewed.

Aramis couldn’t hide the smile curling at the corners of his mouth, “told you it was nasty.”

He quickly swallowed, ridding his mouth of the pungent leaves. “Arrgghh... ach!” he spat, nearly gagging. “That’s terrible,” he said in a gruff whisper, his voice hoarse.

“Sorry, my friend,” Aramis shrugged a shoulder. “I know it tastes bad. . . but it works.”

“Hell, we migh’ as well git up now.” Porthos tossed his pillow at Athos in jest. “Cap’n will be up soon, we better get a move on.”

*****

Captain Tréville stood in front of his eight Musketeers to brief them one last time, just for peace of mind. They had been over the details of the mission multiple times but as their captain sometimes worry gets the better of him, especially when sending his men into danger. 

“Marquis, you and your team will go to _Palais-Royal_ and meet with King Louis to prepare for travel, everything you need is there. Your team will be traveling to Orléans as chefs and assistant cooks to prepare for the Midsummer Festival. You will change into the appropriate clothing to look the part as chefs; and this applies to the king as well. You will be taking with you the ‘tools of the trade,’ plenty of smoked meats, spices, herbs, vegetables, etc… in case you are stopped for inspection.”

“Gaston and Averille, you will be in charge of aiding the king, making sure that he is properly dressed, disguised as Chef François de la Varenne. You will ride directly behind the coach where you will keep an eye open at all times. Do not move from that position.” 

“Jean-Pierre, you will travel with King Louis inside the coach—you are not to leave the king’s side for any reason. Never are you to get out of the coach without the king. Am I clear?” the captain asked.

“Yes sir,” he answered.

Captain Tréville paused at this point, trying to think of a delicate way of expressing his concern for the king’s lack of focus. “Jean-Pierre,” the captain folded his hands together, “on your way to Orléans, I want you to tutor the king on the basics of cooking ingredients; the king must at least know what herbs you have with you inside the coach. Chef Varenne is very particular about his herbs, he would want to keep them close, so make sure he knows parsley, sage, bayleaf. . . whatever,” the captain gestured with his hands. “Do you understand?” 

Jean-Pierre nodded, “yes sir.”

Captain Tréville spoke to the entire group, “do all you understand your assignments?” he captain asked one final time.

“Yes sir,” they answered in unison.

“Once the king is safely at the _Château de Blois_ you will immediately send the messenger to let me know,” the captain nodded. 

“Marquis,” the captain faced the leader of the group, “since you will be traveling ahead of the decoy, you are free to leave whenever you are ready.” 

Captain Tréville shook the hands of each of the four men, wishing them well. “Safe travels and godspeed, gentlemen.” 

Group two galloped off, heading to. Tréville watched them until they disappeared around a street corner. The captain turned his attention back to the remaining four Musketeers. 

For the first time since briefing the Musketeers, the captain took notice of Athos’ haggard appearance. The dark circles under his lieutenant’s eyes stood out against his pale skin. Athos’ hat was pulled low to help block the glare of the sun.

“Are you alright, Athos?” the captain asked before briefing the final group.

Athos nodded, but remained quiet.

“Alright gentlemen,” the captain took off his hat then ran a hand through his hair before replacing the hat. “While Marquis’s group has the real king, you have the more dangerous mission. If you are successful, however, it will allow Marquis to escort the king into town completely unnoticed and unmolested.”

“Yes sir, understood.” Athos stood before his captain feeling fatigued, despite sleeping most of the day before. The pounding headache was lessening to a dull throb now, thanks to the bitter feverfew. Perhaps more of the medicine--with breakfast--would finally put to rest the man with the sledgehammer. 

“Don’t worry, cap’n,” Porthos said with a large grin, “we’ll be jus’ fine. What could possibly go wrong escorting a decoy, eh?”

Aramis rolled his eyes, _always the optimist, that one_.

“Gentlemen, Serge has gone through the trouble of preparing for you a generous breakfast before your travels, so why don’t you go eat.” Tréville motioned his head toward the mess hall but indicated that he would not be joining them. 

“Ah, now that will get any man off to a great start,” Porthos clapped his hands together. The large man was all smiles as he hastily made his way to the feast awaiting them in the mess hall.

The captain smiled, chuckling at Porthos’ carefree attitude. “When you are finished eating,” he said to Athos, “you may ride to the Louvre where you can change into your fresh uniforms. The carriage for the king should be arriving soon to await departure.” The captain then turned on his heel to go back up to his office.

“Um, sir?” d’Artagnan asked. “Why don’t you join us for breakfast? If I know Serge, there’s more than enough for all of us.” The young Gascon glanced at his fellow Musketeers, who were nodding their agreement.

Tréville declined the invitation. “Thank you, but no, this meal was prepared for you.” he said with a smile. “You have a long journey ahead, so eat up. I’ll see you off before you go.” Tréville turned and bounded up the stairs to his office, closing the door.

D’Artagnan shrugged as he glanced at the two Musketeers, “oh well, more for us. Grabbing Aramis and Athos by the shoulders, the young Musketeer went to the mess hall, his two friends in tow. Porthos was seated, already eating, “hey, leave some for us,” the Gascon joked. _There’s enough food here to feed the entire company of Musketeers_.

The boys had their fill at breakfast, all enjoying light chatter, momentarily forgetting the mission and responsibilities that lay ahead. Finally, Athos indicated it was time to get moving. “That's enough,” he tossed his napkin on the empty plate, “it’s time to go.” 

“Ahhh,” said Porthos, “I’m so full, now I’ love to head to the barracks for a long nap.” He stretched out his long arms sounding off with a long, noisy yawn.

“You can sleep all you want when you get back,” the captain called from the doorway, motioning for the musketeers to follow him. “I think you will have earned a few days off.” He walked with the men to the livery stable where Jacques had the horses saddled and ready to go.

“Alright, gentlemen,” the captain said, shaking the hands of each of the four men. “I am sending a messenger to accompany the decoy’s entourage, if anything happens. Should I receive word the mission has gone sour, I will send help immediately.”

“Understood,” Athos said as he mounted his horse.

“Be careful,” Captain Tréville called out to the men, watching as the four rode away. “Godspeed, Musketeers.” The captain said a quiet prayer for his men and their safe return.

*****

At the _Palais du Louvre_ , Rochefort was impatiently waiting for the arrival of the Musketeers. “Well, it’s about time you showed up. I was beginning to think I would need to round up more of the Red Guards to take your place,” the man said with a sneer. “As it is, nevertheless, I have extra guards to accompany you on the trip.”

“Wait a minute,” Athos put his hand up, shaking his head in protest. “That was not authorized by Captain Tréville.”

“Yes, you are quite correct,” he retorted. “It was not authorized by the captain; it was authorized by the king. . .the real king, that is.” Rochefort wore a devilish grin as he watched the musketeers exchange silent glances.

“Seeing that you have no grounds for argument, I suggest that you go change into the proper attire,” Rochefort said flatly. “You mustn’t keep the ‘king’ waiting.” 

“Damn!” Porthos growled to Athos. “What would the cap’n say ‘bout this, eh?”

Athos stormed into the palace ahead of the group, too angry to answer Porthos’ question. He knew his nemesis with the sledgehammer inside his head would be returning. 

“This is already not starting off well,” d’Artagnan muttered with sarcasm. 

“I said earlier that I had a bad feeling about this,” Aramis shook his head, exchanging glances with d’Artagnan. 

The Musketeers changed into their dress uniforms then accompanied the decoy king to the _Cour Carrée_ , where the carriage waited in the front of the palace.

King ‘Louis’ and his Musketeers were now ready to travel into the streets of Paris for the journey to Orléans. The Musketeers rode in pairs with d'Artagnan and Athos in front of the carriage, and Porthos and Aramis behind it. Their blue cloaks, identifying them as the King’s Musketeers, draped elegantly from their shoulders, covering the saddles and backs of their horses. 

The Red Guard also rode in pairs with two riders taking their places on both sides of the carriage and a pair following on the rear, behind the caravan.  


The streets of Paris were lined with adoring crowds, making the route for the procession difficult to maneuver. Thousands of adoring subjects of the king filled the streets, all wanting to get a glimpse of their beloved leader. The decoy sat in the middle of the carriage, somewhat in the shadows, but still in view of the public. Many of the ladies screamed in delight as the king waved to them as he rode by.

“Make way for the King!” D'Artagnan and Athos shouted at the people to clear the crowded streets. The men had their work cut out for them as the crowd pushed past the designated barriers, vying for a look at their king.

“I’m going to be hoarse before we even get out of the city,” d’Artagnan complained to Athos beside him. He noticed the lieutenant's brow furrowed in pain, the stress having caused his headache to return.

“If we had planned this better, I should have been riding in the back with Porthos.” D’Artagnan yelled over the noise of the crowd.

Athos glanced sideways at his protégé, clearly confused at the comment.

“I should have been in the back with Porthos so Aramis could be up here with you,” d’Artagnan repeated his comment. “You see, Aramis is carrying the satchel with the headache medicine,” the young Gascon explained.

“Your mistake is that he’s back there,” d'Artagnan gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, “and you’re up here,” he motioned with his head. “Medicine isn’t going to do you any good. . . back there,” he gestured again behind them with his thumb.

Athos looked at d’Artagnan and smiled, his eyes soft, grateful for the young man’s concern.

Finally, they made it out of the noisy and crowded streets of Paris. Each of the Musketeers breathed a sigh of relief, glad that part of the journey was over.

Entering into the little village of Antony, the Musketeers and Red Guard were back in full alert mode as they passed by new and eager crowds, all wanting the rare chance of seeing the king. Finally, as the entourage left the crowds behind them, d’Artagnan visibly relaxed in the saddle, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The rest of the trip should be fairly easy from here to Orléans, shouldn’t it?” he asked.

“No,” Athos shook his head, “quite the opposite, actually.” The older, more experienced Musketeer knew the stories of bandits lurking in the forest shadows of Torfou. The road between Paris and Orléans has become a goldmine for bandits awaiting ambush of especially wealthy travelers. As this is the only road between Paris and Orléans, they had no choice but to travel into the forest region so notable for bandit raiders. “We still have the Forest of Torfou ahead of us,” Athos glanced around in all directions, suddenly very nervous. 

“The more I think about it,” Athos said to d’Artagnan, “I wonder if we’ve made a grave mistake?” Athos was not one to question authority, and he never questioned the orders of his superiors. However, those orders were usually sound, solid, and made sense. This time was an exception.

Until now, he has never been placed in a situation where he would even dare question the king. In addition, Athos never would have voiced such concerns aloud to those under his command, either. _But this entire charade idea of the king’s is insane_ , he thought.

“Well, if that’s the case, I don’t understand why there was a need for us to put on this charade in the first place. What’s the point?” the young man asked, almost as though he had read his mentor’s mind.

D’Artagnan was confused--inexperienced rather--about royalty and such matters. If the king wanted to go on vacation, taking with him an entourage, then that was exactly what the king _and_ his Musketeers would do. In addition, if King Louis wanted to put on a charade to make his own travels go unnoticed, then his wishes still must be followed. 

The king gave the orders—whether they made sense or not—and the Musketeers followed said orders. The life of a Musketeer was expendable. The life of King Louis was not.

No sooner, had d’Artagnan and Athos voiced their concerns when shots rang out from the direction of the forest. Men on horseback came out of the shadows on both sides of the road, firing at the entourage.

Immediately, two of the Red Guards stationed on the carriage’s left and right fell dead from their horses. The two other side guards tried turning, in defense against the approaching bandits, only to fall with gunshots to the chest. 

D’Artagnan and Athos immediately swung wide, left and right respectively, arcing around the flanks of the approaching raiders to catch them unawares on their rear. 

**On the Road’s Left Side:**

D’Artagnan took aim, shooting a raider square in the chest, he continued riding past the man as he fell dead from his horse. At hearing the shot, a nearby raider turned to take aim at the young Gascon--but missed. D’Artagnan—seeing an opportunity open—took advantage by jumping at the raider, bodily knocking him off his horse. Both men fell to the ground, sprawling in a tangled ball across the grass. 

D’Artagnan was first on his feet with sword drawn, easily piercing the bandit through the heart before his opponent could even get to his feet. What the young Musketeer didn’t see or hear was another rider coming toward him from behind; there were so many raiders swarming around the Musketeer it was impossible to keep an eye on all of them. 

For a moment, d’Artagnan thought he heard Porthos yell his name, just a split second before hearing the sound of gunshots echo in his ears. 

A burning sensation suddenly exploded in his back, throwing him forward off his feet. Lying face down on the ground, d’Artagnan felt the reverberations of horses running nearby, as well as heavy boots chasing and lunging. He fought to catch his breath, but it felt like his lungs were being crushed by an unseen force of weight. He lay in the dirt and fought for every breath he breathed. 

He wanted to get back into the fight but he couldn't get his body to move. D’Artagnan lay still, straining to listen to the nearby voice of Porthos telling someone to “burn in hell” before the heavy boots came running his way, stopping at his side.

D’Artagnan felt his body being turned over, hands tenderly turning his face upward. The sun glaring in his eyes caused him to see only a silhouette of the large man in front of him. “Porth’s?” the hurt man slurred weakly. He wanted to say more to Porthos, tell him that he was okay, but he couldn't seem to get the words out. Fighting to continue breathing was sapping all of his strength.

Porthos was saying something but he couldn't understand the words. Words of comfort fell on d’Artagnan’s ears as mere noise, blurred sounds. It didn’t take long for the loud ringing in his ears to finally drown out the blurring voice. 

D’Artagnan felt like he was floating. Soon, he heard nothing as his world faded to black.

**On the Road’s Right Side:**

Athos swung around, coming up behind a rider who was heading toward the carriage stopped in the road. The Musketeer aimed his harquebus at the rider, hitting him in the back. The bandit fell from his horse, dead before he hit the ground. 

At the same moment, a raider took aim at Athos as the Musketeer was tossing his empty pistol to the ground, making him a vulnerable target. A shot rang out from across the field, cutting the raider down before he had a chance to pull the trigger. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Athos realized how close he had come to being shot in the back. He looked at the dead raider in front of him to across the field, letting out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He watched as Aramis rode by then nodded his acknowledgement, grateful for the sharpshooter’s eagle eye. The attention of the men, however, was soon diverted as more raiders came out from behind the trees.

Athos looked around at the growing number of raiders, shaking his head with disbelief. _How many more of them are there?_ the Musketeer wondered. He jumped down from his horse, allowing him a better fighting stance on foot. As an experienced foot soldier, he felt more effective fighting on the ground, preferably with his sword, as that was where the Musketeers had the advantage. However, these raiders had more firepower than the Musketeers and they were not here to fight fair. In the Forest of Torfou, the King's Musketeers were outgunned and outmanned; they had to rely on their brilliant fighting skills to outwit the raiders. 

A rider with a loaded pistol quickly approached the Musketeer; Athos turned to face him with steely resolve. The lieutenant stood ready, with main gauche in hand, and waited. 

As the rider drew near, the Musketeer expertly threw his dagger and impaled the rider in the throat. He stepped to the side as the man fell to the ground. Athos turned the raider over to retrieve his dagger, then wiped the blood on the man’s sleeve. 

Just then, a horseman sped past Athos with his pistol ready, taking aim—but not at him. The Musketeer’s eyes followed the path of the aimed pistol and realized, to his horror, who the intended target was-- just as the rider pulled the trigger. 

Athos watched helplessly as Aramis’ head jerked to the side then back as the ball hit the target, sending the grey hat flying. The Musketeer limply fell from his horse to the ground in a heap. “No!” Athos screamed at the sight of his friend now lying motionless on the ground.

The Musketeer heard the sound of gunshots and sword fighting from the other side of the road, but with the carriage blocking his view, he couldn't tell if d’Artagnan and Porthos were faring any better than he and Aramis. 

Athos, however, didn't have time to dwell on his fellow Musketeers as he found himself embroiled in a desperate fight for his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bandits were commonplace in 17th century France with many wealthy merchants and tax collectors being robbed and killed, such lawlessness was widespread by the end of the century. A favorite ambush spot was on the road between Paris and Orleans, close to the forest of Torfou.


	4. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Athos are left fighting alone while d'Artagnan and Aramis fight for their lives. Can the two remaining musketeers save themselves, allowing them to be able to save their brothers?

Athos ran toward the still form of Aramis lying on the ground but was attacked by a raider wielding a sword. The experienced Musketeer drew his sword with lightning speed, stopping the swing of the blade with a clash of steel. Sunlight glistened off the blades as the men sparred, swords swinging, as each tried to get the upper hand.

Athos easily stepped back to avoid a slash at his left arm. He ducked as a swing was aimed at his neck, turning a half-circle as the man tried maneuvering around behind the Musketeer. Athos lunged forward on his right foot with such speed he had the opponent falling back. The brilliant swordsman brought his rapier around and up; with a swift, slanted downward motion, Athos forced his opponent’s arm downward while slicing a deep cut into the man’s shoulder.

The raider stumbled back slightly at the injury, giving Athos the advantage. With a swing left and a slash right, the Musketeer easily disarmed the sword from his opponent's hand; and with one last circular motion, he sent the sword flying. Athos lunged forward, sending his rapier into the raider’s chest, piercing the heart.

From behind, Athos heard the approach of more raider swordsmen and turned to face them. As he was turning, one of the swordsmen thrust his rapier and stabbed Athos’ left shoulder in the back, just under the shoulder blade. The Musketeer bobbled slightly but quickly pivoted on his heel to position both the swordsmen in front of him. He blocked a thrust from one opponent, then pivoted again on his right foot to face the second. Using his left foot, he gave a swift kick to the second opponent’s chest, knocking the man off his feet and onto his back. 

Like a cat striking, Athos moved in for the kill and thrust his sword into the man’s chest. He pulled his sword from the man’s chest in time to block a glancing strike to the shoulder from the first raider. The Musketeer turned to his right, expertly swinging around to position himself behind the man, where he thrust his sword into the man’s back. As the man fell, Athos kicked him forward to use the momentum to pull his sword free from the man’s body.

Finding his harquebus lying nearby, Athos reloaded the weapon then quickly fired at a man approaching just feet away. Falling dead, the raider dropped his pistol, which Athos picked up to fire at a raider trying to flank behind him. The few remaining raiders ran back into the trees, giving Athos a moment to go check on Aramis.

The Musketeer fell to his knees beside the still and bloody form of Aramis. Suddenly overcome with nausea, he violently lost the contents of his stomach. The retching caused his pounding headache to return; his head throbbed with every beat of his heart. “Stand up, damn you,” Athos growled to himself. He looked over at Aramis, his heart sinking with dread.

Athos pushed himself to his feet with a hiss of pain, “God please, be alive, Aramis.” He dropped heavily to his knees beside his friend, stifling a cry of despair. He gently took the fallen Musketeer by the shoulders then pulled him onto his back. “God, no,” Athos gasped at the sight of his friend’s bloody face. 

The left side of Aramis’ face was smeared with streams of blood pouring from the head wound. Athos tried to find the entry point of the ball but there was too much blood and dirt to discern. “No. . . Aramis, don’t do this!” Athos cried, frantically scanning his eyes over his friend’s face and head.

With shaking fingers, he reached to Aramis’ neck to check for a pulse, fearing what he would--or would not--find. With his fingers on the sharpshooter’s neck, Athos closed his eyes and waited.

He felt nothing. “God, no. . .”

He pushed down harder on his friend’s throat and waited. . .

A beat. . . another beat. . .

“Aramis?” The Musketeer’s heart skipped--he held his breath, hoping against hope. Once again, he pressed his fingers on the bloodied throat and waited, not daring to even breathe. He released his breath and nearly collapsed in relief as he felt the pulse softly beating again. . . and again. “Aramis?” he cried, placing his head atop his friend’s forehead. “Oh, thank God!”

Athos felt another wave of nausea as the ground around him began to move and spin. He laid his head on Aramis’ chest to wait out the nausea, all the while never taking his fingers from his friend’s throat. 

*****

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan, look at me, lad!” Porthos yelled, softly shaking his shoulders as he tried to rouse the unconscious man. He checked the neck for a pulse, certain he would not find the young man alive. When he found a faint pulse he let out a breath of relief, “thank God.”

“You’re bleedin’ pretty bad, I need to get you out of here,” he said to the wounded man. The large Musketeer looked around at the carnage and shook his head. He saw the dead Red Guards lying near the carriage, “damn,” he muttered. 

Porthos and d’Artagnan had been embroiled in a desperate fight with raiders who appeared to flow from the trees like ants. Porthos killed several of the raiders, taking them out with either his pistol or his sword with expert efficiency. The young Musketeer took care of two of his own before falling to a distant musket ball. 

During the fighting, Porthos could hear sounds of gunfire and clanging steel from the other side of the carriage. He worried for his brother Musketeers caught up heavy fighting of their own. He wanted to be at their side, helping to protect them, but he had his own battle to fight alongside d’Artagnan.

Porthos paused to listen. The sudden quiet on both sides of the road made his stomach flip-flop. “Damn, somethin’s not right,” he said, looking to the trees with great worry. “I shouldn’t move ya, pup, but I can’t leave ya here; those raiders are prob’ly regrouping—and they’ll be back.”

Porthos gathered up their weapons, knowing they would need them later. He looked down at his young friend, “we got to get the hell out of here and check on ‘Mis and Athos, somethin’s not right, I can feel it.”

Porthos gently scooped the badly wounded d’Artagnan into his arms, being careful not to jostle him. “They bet’er be okay over there, we need ‘Mis now more than ever to doctor you.” He tenderly spoke to the young Gascon in his arms as he walked.

Coming around the back of the carriage, Porthos could now see the deadly scene in front of him and it stopped him dead in his tracks. There was no movement on the field anywhere, from anyone. 

Porthos started scanning the bodies scattered across the field, looking for his two friends. _Looks like you guys had a hell of a fight too,_ he shook morbid thoughts from his head. Finally, his eyes landed upon the familiar leather doublet of Athos. 

Porthos saw that the lieutenant was hunched over someone. “Oh God, it’s ‘Mis!” the Musketeer said aloud. Porthos quickly made his way over to Athos and Aramis, neither of his friends were moving. The large Musketeer took notice of Athos’ shoulder, seeing a tear where a sword had pierced the leather. He could also see the red smear from blood as it dripped down the length of his doublet. 

However, what made Porthos’ heart skip a beat was the sight of Aramis’ face streaked in blood, his hair also matted with blood and dirt. He instantly surmised what had happened to the sharpshooter and, for a moment, the larger Musketeer thought he might actually drop d’Artagnan from shock.

“Aramis?” Porthos called out. "Athos?" he stood, still holding the young Gascon in his arms. Carefully, he laid d'Artagnan down next to his two friends, knowing he had to check on their conditions. He paused, afraid of what he would find.

“Athos?” he asked, full of worry. Porthos placed a hand on Athos’ back then pulled the wounded man into his arms, his head lolled into Porthos’ shoulder.

Porthos shook his arms, trying to shake Athos awake. “Come on, damn you,” he appealed. “Wake up!” he yelled, now losing his patience. When that didn’t rouse the lieutenant, he patted the unconscious man’s cheeks until he was slapping his face with panic. 

“Sssstopppp,” Athos slurred as he started to come around, batting at Porthos’ hand. 

Porthos shook him once again, “come on, we don’t have time for you to sleep. The raiders could come back any moment now. We’ve got to get out of here.” Porthos stole a worried glance around the field, growing more anxious by the minute.

As Athos became more aware, he remembered Aramis; alarmed and panicking, the lieutenant struggled to sit up. “Aramis, he’s hurt bad!” Athos looked over at his friend who still had not moved since he saw him fall from the horse. “Porthos, is he. . .?”

Porthos let go of Athos so he could check on Aramis. He placed his fingers on Aramis’ neck and waited for a sign of life. Finding a pulse, “I’ve go’ a pulse!” he smiled, clapping his hands together in happy relief. 

Suddenly turning serious, Porthos drew attention to young d’Artagnan lying on the ground beside Athos. “Our young Gascon here is not doing well,” he motioned with his head. “Without Aramis, I don’t know wha’ we’re gonna do.”

Athos swung his head around to see d’Artagnan lying beside him, his heart sank at seeing the unmoving form. “No,” he swallowed a sob rising in his throat. He punched the ground with his fist, “dammit!”

“I know,” Porthos soothed Athos, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. “They’re both in real bad shape, but if we don’t get out of here, ain’t none of us makin’ it.” 

“Yes, let’s get the hell out of here,” Athos agreed. It suddenly occurred to the Musketeer that they hadn't yet checked on the imposter king. Athos looked at the carriage then back at Porthos, “have you checked on the decoy?”

“No, I’ve been a little preoccupied,” he snorted. Porthos glanced at Athos, “I’ll go check on ‘im, be right back.” He looked around nervously, making sure it was safe before running to the carriage. He looked through the window, his shoulders slumping. Opening the door to the carriage he peered inside for a closer look, “bloody hell.” The instant Porthos saw the hole in the decoy’s head he knew the man was dead. Once glance at the messenger Captain Tréville had sent along with the decoy told the Musketeer the man was dead as well. 

While Porthos was at the carriage, Athos gathered the strength to get up to his feet. Feeling dizzy he bent over to steady himself with his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths until the dizziness passed. 

Porthos returned to find Athos bent over. “Are you alright?” he asked with concern. 

Athos nodded, standing to full height slowly.

Motioning with his head toward the carriage, “decoy’s dead,” Porthos paused, “ and the messenger is too, so we won't be gettin' any help.” Looking back to the wounded Musketeers, “they need a physician . . . we’ve got to go now.”

Athos glanced at the two wounded men on the ground then looked to the road, searching for their horses. He found their four horses huddled together in the safety of a nearby copse of trees. “There they are,” he motioned with his head. “We’re going to have to tether their horses to our own and double up. I’ll take Aramis.” 

Porthos nodded, “stay here, I’ll go get the horses.” The Musketeer went to gather the horses together then brought them back to the carriage. “If you can start tethering the reins,” he said to Athos, “I’ll carry d’Artagnan and Aramis over here so we can load ‘em up on the horses. You’re in no condition to carry either one.” Porthos looked at Athos’ shoulder, frowning.

“It’s not that bad. . . just a scratch.”

“Hmf,” Porthos grunted, “just a scratch. . . hell.” He shook his head, glancing at Athos as he passed by to retrieve the wounded men. 

Athos finished tethering the horses as Porthos brought the first of the wounded Musketeers over. “It’s going to be easiest if we get Aramis up in the saddle first, making sure he’s securely in place,” Athos instructed to Porthos. “Then, you get up on your horse and I’ll hand d’Artagnan up to you.”

“Are you sure you can lift d'Artagnan with that hurt shoulder?” Porthos asked.

“I told you, it’s just a scratch. Now, let’s get them loaded up.”

Porthos picked up Aramis and easily placed him in the saddle. Athos stood on the other side, helping to secure the unconscious man so he wouldn't fall off while they were taking care of d’Artagnan.

Porthos mounted his horse, ready to receive the young Gascon. Athos tenderly picked d’Artagnan up then carefully lifted him into Porthos’ waiting arms. He involuntarily winced as he felt the wound in his shoulder tear and had to bite back a cry of pain.

The flash of pain across Athos’ face did not go unnoticed by Porthos; however, he knew that it was pointless to argue with the man so he kept his objections to himself. 

Athos mounted the horse behind Aramis then turned the horses back onto the road. “We need to go back to Paris so we can get them the medical attention they need.” 

No sooner had Athos spoken, when he saw another group of raiders coming out of the trees from the north. “Dammit to hell!” Athos cursed out loud to himself. He looked down the road going south and then back to the approaching raiders coming from the north, deciding what would be the best course of action. He glanced quickly to Porthos, “we have no choice. . . we ride south.” 

Holding tightly onto Aramis, Athos kicked the horse into a run, towing the sharpshooter’s horse along with them. Beside him, Porthos tucked d’Artagnan closely to his chest and hung onto the young man with a tight grip. Kicking his horse into a run, he followed behind his two brothers ahead. . . with a group of raiders hot on their heels behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I hope that you really enjoy this chapter, I tried to give it plenty of angst and whump. Please, leave a comment to let me know your thoughts! Thanks for reading!


	5. The Chase

Athos and Porthos sped ahead, with hooves thundering beneath them, as they found themselves in a race for their lives. Neither man would have run for their own personal safety but would have stood and fought like Musketeers should. However, to save the lives of their friends, they would do anything for the two wounded brothers tucked tightly in their arms. Both Musketeers knew the wounded men need medical attention soon, or neither one would last the day. This was a race against time.

Their horses were tiring and slowing, it wouldn't be long before the raiders caught up. A shot rang out behind them. The musket ball whizzed past Athos’ ear, causing him instinctively to duck. Athos thought twice about dodging any further musket balls when he remembered Aramis in his arms. He would rather take a ball while shielding his brother than have Aramis hurt.

More shots were fired from behind, making a buzzing sound as they flew by while missing their intended targets. Athos yelled to Porthos that they needed to ride into the trees to try and lose the riders in the forest if they were to survive. They were running out of options as the raiders drew closer. Going into the forest was a better option than staying on the road as easy targets, while being overrun and shot dead.

Porthos stared into the forest then threw a glance over his shoulder; he frowned as he watched the raiders close in. He didn't like this idea, but he nodded his agreement since he couldn't think of a better idea at the moment. Athos steered toward the trees, with Porthos following close behind. He dodged and weaved between the trees, making his way to the older, thicker trees deeper in the forest. The larger trees would be perfect as cover on their zigzag path of escape.

The raiders followed them into the forest, yelling obscenities and laughing at the musketeer’s peril. A shot was fired. Athos easily dodged fire around a tree, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos flinch and jerk slightly in his saddle. 

“Bloody hell!” Porthos growled.

“Are you hit?” Athos yelled to Porthos. He tried to get a good look at his friend but there were too many trees passing between them to see.

“Nah, I’m fine,” Porthos yelled back. “It’s just a graze; I’ll be fine.”

“It’s just a graze _where?"_ Athos yelled with concern.

Athos saw a rocky escarpment with scattered boulders on the path just ahead. He pointed then yelled to Porthos that they would take cover behind the rocks. Both men stopped their horses behind a large boulder where it was safe from the raiders. . . for the moment.

“Now what?” Porthos called to Athos, quizzically.

“Give me your pistols,” Athos ordered.

“Wha’ are gonna do?” Porthos was instantly alarmed. “You’re not gonna do somethin’ stupid, are ya?” 

“They’ve got to reload and regroup,” Athos answered. “While they’re reloading, we’re going to reload. . . and you're going to get out of here.”

“Whoa, hold on now,” Porthos protested angrily. “You are not stayin’ here fightin’ them off by yourself!”

Athos looked at Porthos to see blood trickling down from a long graze to his neck from the musket ball. “Damn, I knew you were hit.” Athos leaned closer on his saddle to see if the neck wound was serious but, considering it was a neck wound, thankfully it wasn’t too bad. Athos got to business reloading the muskets while Porthos continued protesting.

“I’m not leavin’ you here by yourself,” Porthos argued. “Looks like there’s about four or five of them raiders, there's just two of us. I ain’t leavin’ you alone.”

Athos looked hard at d’Artagnan slumped in the saddle--his face ashen, lips pale. “No, d’Artagnan doesn’t have much time. He needs a physician _soon_ or he dies, Aramis also. This is our only chance for you to get them both to a doctor. I will stay here and hold off the raiders while you ride away.”

“In fact,” Athos continued, having a new thought come to mind. “Ride to Chamarande, ask them to summon a physician immediately to the _Château de Chamarande._ Take d’Artagnan and Aramis there, M. Hurault should have people around who can begin treatment for them until the physician arrives. I will be along shortly, soon as I take care of these raiders once and for all. I will join you at the château as soon as I can.”

Porthos began protesting, “I am not leaving you alone,” he said defiantly.

“Dammit, Porthos,” Athos growled. “We don’t have time to argue!” Losing patience, the Musketeer changed tactics from negotiating to commanding. “Do as I say, Porthos, it is not a request. Now, take my horse--Aramis is secured well and should not fall--and go. That is an order!”

Porthos shook his head but refrained from arguing then turned to untether Aramis' horse from Athos'. Athos dismounted his horse, leaving the precious cargo of Aramis in the saddle, handing Porthos the reins. Porthos, with d'Artagnan held tightly to his chest, and Aramis now in tow, turned to leave and rode away quietly without turning back. He rode behind the rocks and trees to the forest tree line where he stopped to survey the open land in front of him. In the distance, Porthos could see the village of Chamarande. He kicked his horse into motion, "come on, let's get you two to a doctor."

*****

Athos finished reloading his personal arsenal of weapons just as the group of raiders started advancing on his position. The Musketeer moved to a different rock where he would have a safer vantage point.

Positioning himself behind a large rock, the Musketeer aimed his pistol at a raider and shot, killing him instantly. Picking up another pistol, he shot and killed a second man as he came out from behind a tree. Athos had one more pistol he could use before he was out of ammunition then would have to resort to using his sword or dagger; he waited until they were within close proximity, just to be safe. Like a spider waiting for its prey, Athos waited until the third man had almost approached the rocks before firing directly at his chest. Three down. . . two to go. 

Tossing the pistol aside, Athos waited while standing ready with his sword in hand. The advancing raider crept toward Athos then fired his pistol; he missed his target, giving Athos the opening he needed. The lieutenant immediately attacked with his sword, piercing the man. Before the raider knew what was happening, the Musketeer’s sword was deeply penetrated in his chest.

Meanwhile, a fifth and final raider had been creeping closer to the rocks, going unnoticed by Athos as he was preoccupied with multiple attackers. The raider took aim and fired, hitting Athos in his right side. The shot knocked Athos to the ground, and sent him sprawling down over the rocks. 

Athos quickly scrambled behind a tree, gasping in pain and biting back the scream wanting to escape his lips. He didn’t want to give the raider the pleasure of hearing him cry out but, most importantly, he didn't want to give away his hidden position. Athos peeked carefully around the tree trunk to look for the man but couldn't find him. “Dammit,” he whispered to himself, pain hissing through his teeth. He put a hand to his stomach then pulled it back, gasping as it was covered in blood. "Damn, hang in there Athos," he ordered himself. 

Athos had dropped his sword when he was shot and fell off the rocks and now it was too far out of reach to retrieve safely. He peered around the tree once again, spotting his sword lying in the leaves about five feet away, when suddenly he heard the snapping of a twig behind him.

The Musketeer turned around to see the remaining raider coming at him, sword drawn. Athos shot to his feet, the pain from his side forgotten as adrenaline powered him to fight one more desperate fight for his life. He scrambled to his sword, reaching it just as the man took a glancing strike at Athos. The Musketeer blocked the hit, striking back himself with a furious intensity. Athos again blocked a downward cut to the shoulder as the opponent stepped back. Both swordsmen were looking for an opening to strike, circling around while never taking their eyes from each other. 

The raider attacked with a horizontal cut to Athos’ chest but the Musketeer slid his sword down the length of the opponent’s sword; with metal on metal and steel screeching, he pushed the sword off to the side with brute strength. The raider’s sword came back around, clashing with Athos’ sword, just as the raider tripped on a branch and caused him to fall to the ground. Athos thrust forward, attacking with such speed that he pierced the man’s heart before the man could raise his arm in defense.

Athos closed his eyes and tipped his head back, letting out a long sigh of relief as he tried to catch his breath. “Thank God,” he said, kicking the man’s sword away. Suddenly, Athos was overcome with a wave of dizziness, "damn." He leaned forward as he clutched at his burning side, waiting for the dizziness to pass. "Damn," he said again, as the forest floor appeared to be spinning.

Athos shook his head to clear the dizziness away then began to make his way back toward the horses. He took a few steps but faltered. "Damn," Athos muttered as he fell to the forest floor, unconscious before he hit the ground. 

*****

Porthos rode quickly to the village of Chamarande, looking for anyone who could help. He rode by _Église Saint-Quentin_ where a priest had just come out of the church to meet the men on horseback. "My dear child, what happened with you and these men?" the priest asked the Musketeer. 

"Do you know where I can find a physician?" Porthos asked. He told the priest what happened in the forest with the raiders, explaining the dire medical urgency for d'Artagnan and Aramis. 

"Why yes, I know where the physician is," the priest answered. "I will go get him,"

"Thank You," Porthos said, grateful for the priest’s help. "Please have the doctor go directly to the _Château de Chamarande,_ that is where I am taking them."

"You are a King's Musketeer," the priest said. "I see your Musketeer pauldron," he motioned with his head to Porthos's shoulder. "I will gladly help the Musketeers in service of the King. May God bless and heal your friends. Go, I will fetch the doctor for you." He smiled, then walked down the street in search of the doctor.

Porthos rode down a long dirt path and through an iron gate in front of the majestic, red-brick château. In the courtyard, Porthos was met by a house servant to whom he introduced himself and the wounded men. "My name is Porthos and this is d'Artagnan and Aramis. We are King's Musketeers, we were on a mission when we were attacked in the forest. The young lad here was shot in the back and Aramis took a ball to the head; they need a doctor immediately. I need to see the house master, M. Hurault."

The servant took d'Artagnan gently from Porthos' arms so he could dismount the horse. Carefully, Porthos took the young man back into his arms and motioned with his head toward Aramis. "Are you able to carry in my other friend, Aramis, so we can get help?" The servant agreed, taking Aramis from the horse and into his arms. The group then proceeded into the large house, going directly up the stairs to the bedchambers. Porthos gently laid the young Gascon on a bed in one room, while Aramis was taken to the room next door. Returning to speak with Porthos, the servant informed him that he would fetch M. Hurault, as well as their nurse. 

"Thank you, kindly," Porthos said.

After explaining the situation with M. Hurault, the staff was now seeing to the care of both d'Artagnan and Aramis until the arrival of the physician. Waiting in the room with d'Artagnan, Porthos saw from the window an approaching carriage and ran to the courtyard to meet the arriving physician and his assistant. While they walked to d’Artagnan’s room, Porthos explained to both men what happened and how badly d’Artagnan and Aramis were hurt.

The physician examined the Gascon, while the assistant went to examine Aramis. The physician asked to have d’Artagnan moved carefully to a wooden table where he could be laid face down. The trained physician began to examine the wound, telling the nurse everything he would need for surgery. The young man had taken a musket ball in the upper, middle portion of his back and there was no exit wound--meaning the ball was still inside d'Artagnan. The experienced doctor knew this would be a delicate and dangerous surgery.

Porthos waited anxiously by the window for signs of Athos but there was nothing yet. The longer he waited, watching for Athos on the long path leading into the château's courtyard, the more he started to feel that something had gone terribly wrong. "Damn!" Porthos bellowed out, surprising everyone in the room. At this point, Porthos didn't care what the others thought. "Somethin's not right, he should be here by now!" he said, growing more tense by the minute. The Musketeer was worried about his friend, the man he left behind in the woods, so everyone else could reach safety. 

Athos always put the welfare of others in front of himself, that was just his nature. Porthos knew that Athos wouldn't hesitate to give his own life if it meant saving his friends and fellow Musketeers. The large Musketeer knew Athos was the best of the best; he was the best of the Musketeers, a fine warrior and a brilliant swordsman. However, as good as Athos was as a soldier, he was still greatly outnumbered. He had hated the idea of having to leave Athos behind, but yet he knew that his two friends would not have lasted in the forest much longer.

"Dammit!" Porthos roared, "I'm going back out there." Rushing down the staircase, Porthos was stopped by M. Hurault. 

"Wait! I will send Jean-Luc with you, he is my best hunter. If you run into any trouble, I would feel better knowing you had help and more weapons at your disposal." M. Hurault gave orders to several servants to fetch Jean-Luc, his horse and two of their finest muskets. 

Porthos shook his head, "thank you, M. Hurault, but no. I appreciate the help but I cannot wait. My friend is out there--he's probably hurt, possibly dead. This is something I have to do alone." Porthos turned on his heel and ran to his horse. With a swift kick to the animal's side, he took off at a gallop down the long path toward the forest, toward his friend and brother. "Please be alive, my friend," he whispered. He could only pray that Athos was still alive and it wasn't already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the 17th Century, just outside of the village of Chamarande, the Château de Chamarande was built. It is a beautiful and majestic manor purchased by King Louis I4th from François Hurault, a personal friend of King Henry IV . The church, Église Saint-Quentin, is still standing, as is the Château, today.


	6. The Storm

Porthos rode furiously toward the tree line with hope that he could retrace the path he took coming out of the forest just hours earlier. He had to find the exact place where he exited the tree line if he wanted to find Athos quickly. He couldn't afford to waste valuable time wandering or searching the forest when Athos’ life could be ebbing away.

He stopped in front of the tree line at a distance, trying to determine if he recognized anything. “Damn, I should have paid more attention comin’ out of here,” he muttered.

He found a pond that triggered his memory, “I remember this,” he said to himself. Porthos entered the forest there to begin his journey back to where he left Athos just hours ago. He crossed a stream, turned left then rode deeper into the forest all the while hoping he was going the right way.

The light was quickly fading as the day drew to a close, causing Porthos to become irritable. "Bloody hell!” he cursed. The Musketeer kept moving forward despite the added handicap, unwilling to stop. However, when the darkness made it nearly impossible to see he finally pulled his horse to a stop. “How in the hell do I find Athos in the dark, dammit?”

“I need a torch for light,” he said into the darkness. Porthos dismounted his horse to feel around on the ground for sticks and leaf litter to start a fire with. He found the sticks and immediately got started at rubbing them together, using the dead leaves to help kindle the sparks. Once he got his little fire going, Porthos found a branch with enough dead leaves and twigs that it should work well for a torch. “I hope I don’t set the forest on fire with this thing,” he grumbled.

The torch worked wonders at lighting up the dark forest, but it also casts strange shadows that appeared to dance in the firelight. Porthos was becoming jittery, almost paranoid. He switched the torch to his left hand so he was able to reach for his sword at a moment’s notice, just in case. 

As if the situation wasn’t already bad, it began to lightly sprinkle, threatening to douse his needed light source. “Dammit, couldn’t you give me some help here?” Porthos yelled up at the sky. “This mission was cursed the minute we hit the road; I've had enough already!” Porthos was letting his pent-up resentment flow in an angry tirade for the constant pounding all four had received since they left Paris. “If you aren’t going to help us, then just leave us alone!”

Porthos continued to ride along, zig-zagging through the trees; he had to dodge low hanging branches, while other times getting smacked in the face by an unseen twig. Finally he came to where the terrain ahead was rocky, alerting Porthos that he must be getting close to where he and Athos parted ways.

Further ahead he spotted the outlines of large rocks, signaling to Porthos that he had found the right place. “Hell, now to find Athos,” he grunted. Suddenly, terrible thoughts started racing through his mind, _what if Athos is not here, but is wandering around somewhere else out there? What if he’s already at the château? What if he’s dead?_

"Stop, Porthos," he ordered himself. "Get control of yourself."

Porthos’ heart caught in his throat as he held the torch high, brightening the dark, rocky landscape. Right where Athos had Aramis’ horse, Belle, tethered, she stood with her eyes reflecting the light of the fire. “Athos?” he called into the darkness. “Are you there? Athos answer me, dammit!”

Porthos’ heart was pounding in his chest as he brought his horse to a stop. He dismounted, securing his horse to a tree next to Belle. He drew his sword then took a deep breath before heading into the dark shadows of the rocks. Carefully and quietly he crept around the landscape looking for signs of Athos.

As he stepped around a particularly large rock, he stopped dead in his tracks. Porthos gasped audibly, his heart thumping in his chest, at the sight of a dead body lying near a tree. He inhaled and exhaled deeply to steady himself and calm his nerves before walking to the body, his sword up and ready.  


His muscles tensed as Porthos held his breath; he lifted the torch closer to see the face. . . 

. . . it wasn't Athos. 

He let out a relieved breath, “thank God.” He frantically looked around the scenery for signs of a fight, possibly with more dead bodies. It didn't take long before Porthos found another unmoving form just to his right, around a clump of rocks. His torch was dimming, so Porthos set out to find another good branch to light before investigating the form.

When he lit his new torch, the clearing was brightly illuminated; the sight around him nearly took his breath away. There, in nearly a perfect circle were the unmoving bodies of. . .

 _One. . . two. . . three. . . four bodies_. “Oh God,” Porthos exclaimed, his chest heaving with rapid breaths. “Bloody hell,” he voiced his thoughts aloud, taking in the scene.

“If there are four bodies out there and one body there,” Porthos looked to his left, “that’s five.” _I argued with Athos about being outnumbered by four or five raiders_. Slowly, he turned to look at the body to his right, “this makes six bodies!” Porthos dropped his sword at the sudden realization, his own body nearly going limp. 

“God. . . no!” he recognized the leather doublet and pauldron on the right shoulder. A stifled cry escaped his lips as he stared at the unmoving form of Athos. Porthos seemed to be frozen in place, unable to make his body cooperate. His eyes grew wide at seeing the dark pool under and around the body, like a dark shadow on the dirt. Athos' Blood.

Porthos stooped down to pick up his dropped sword then made his way to the prone body of Athos. He carefully stepped over his friend then turned around so that the dead bodies were in front of him where he could keep an eye on them. _I’m not keeping my back to them, I’ve heard too many battlefield horror stories_ , he thought to himself.

The Musketeer knelt down beside his friend, taking notice of the hole in the lower right side and the dried blood now caked thick on his doublet. “He can’t be alive, not wit’ all this blood,” Porthos morbidly thought. 

Porthos carefully turned Athos over onto his back, the unconscious man’s head lolled limply to the side. Porthos felt his hands begin to shake as he reached for the neck of his friend. He stopped, flexing his fingers and clenching his fists over and over again, to gather his nerves. Taking a deep breath, he put his fingers on Athos’ neck and waited. 

“God, I’m sorry for what I said earlier," Porthos prayed. "I didn’t mean it. Please, let Athos be alive. . .” 

By some miracle, God was watching out for them after all. Underneath his shaking fingers Porthos felt a faint pulse. Athos’ heart was still beating. Though Porthos didn’t know how it could be possible, that pulse was the sweetest answer to his prayers.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning lit up the night sky, followed by a loud clap of thunder which made Porthos jump. To make matters worse, the skies opened up with a downpour of rain. He looked around for someplace to take shelter until the rain slowed and found a large rock with a jutting lip. He carried Athos to the rocks and scoot underneath and backward until his back rested against the rock wall. He pulled Athos to him, close against his chest, and cradled him in his arms.

He sat under the rocks for what seemed like hours, praying for the rain to stop and praying for Athos to live. His torch had long ago gone out due to the rain, putting him in complete darkness. The sound of rain drowned away all other noise; the blackness of the night surrounded him. The Musketeer's only reprieve was the night sky as it lit with electrifying and bright bolts of lightning. The light illuminated the still forms, casting dark shadows of the dead raiders. Porthos quickly counted the bodies every time the light flashed. He never took his eyes off the dead bodies lying all around him; he didn't dare to look away, not even in the dark.

Finally, the rain began to slow. Porthos had enough of sitting still while being surrounded by dead bodies. It was time to get the hell away from here and get Athos back to the château. He would rather make his way through the forest in the dark, using the lightning as his guiding light, than spend another minute under this rock watching the dead bodies.

Porthos carried Athos to his horse and lifted him into the saddle, securing him for the moment with the reins. He tethered Belle to his own horse then slid into the saddle behind Athos. He gathered in the wounded man closely to his chest and wrapped his large arm around him to hold him secure. 

“Okay, boy,” Porthos spoke softly to his horse, “let’s get the hell out o’ this graveyard. You see better in the dark, so you lead the way and get us outta here.” With a click of his tongue and a soft kick, they were on their way out of Torfou. . . leaving the dead bodies behind them.

Finally, after slow travel through the dark forest, the two musketeers made it to the edge of the tree line just as the eastern sky was beginning to brighten with the rising sun. Porthos’ face, neck and ears were now dotted with droplets of blood from the merciless scratching of unseen branches in the dark. He arrived in Chamarande to find Jean-Luc leading a search party toward the forest.

“Ah, there you are, mon ami,” Jean-Luc said. “We were worried about you and came to look for you. I see that you found your friend, very good!”

“There are five dead bodies in there, near the rocks,” Porthos informed Jean-Luc, motioning with his thumb back toward the forest.

Jean-Luc turned to his search party to tell them to go find the bodies then bury them in the forest. Turning his own horse around, the French hunter joined Porthos for the ride back to the château.

Arriving at the château, Porthos quickly dismounted. He carefully gathered Athos into his arms and carried him into the house, guided by Jean-Luc. Looking down at the man in his arms, he saw how critical his brother’s condition was with the ashen hue of Athos’ face and his bluing lips. “Hang on, my brother, we’re here. You’re safe now, we’re goin’ to take care o’ you.”

*****

**The Previous Day: d’Artagnan’s Room**

D’Artagnan was laid face down on a large wooden table where the physician and attending nurse immediately got to work to retrieve the musket ball from the young man’s back. For far too long the musket ball has been lodged inside the Musketeer’s body and it was a miracle he had survived this long.

The nurse, Cécile, began tugging at the arms of d’Artagnan’s doublet, trying to remove the leather garment, but was having a difficult time.

“Leave it, Cécile,” said the physician, Gérard Berteau. “We cannot risk hurting the lad any further. I will cut it off, he will just have to buy a new doublet. Besides, this one is far too damaged with a hole and all this blood,” the physician said.

M. Berteau took his iron scissors and began cutting away the doublet from d’Artagnan’s unmoving form. He tossed the halves onto the floor, the distinctive pauldron on the sleeve landing face up. Next, the linen shirt, now caked and hardened stiff with blood, was cut away to expose the hole left by the musket ball.

The physician dipped a towel into the bowl of hot water; wringing out the excess, he began to gently wipe away the blood and dirt from d’Artagnan’s back. He carefully cleaned around the bullet wound but wondered if the ball was still lodged inside the Musketeer's body. 

“Cécile, help me turn him,” M. Berteau asked. Together, they gently turned the Gascon just enough for the doctor to take a peek at the front. "Damn, no exit wound,” he shook his head. “Thank you, Cécile.” 

M. Berteau began slicing a small incision along the right side of the spine where the ball had entered, opening the wound area wide enough to begin his search. Using a probing tool, the doctor followed the path of the ball, indicated by the internal bleeding and tears. He soon found the ball lodged deep within the muscle. Thankfully, the ball had missed d’Artagnan’s vital organs.

“The ball has missed his kidney, intestines, and lung,” the doctor reported to the nurse, “he is one lucky young man.” Suddenly, the physician groaned, “oh, but I see that the ball has fragmented into two pieces.” He paused, “I should be able to pull out the one fragment. . .” 

The doctor paused again, looking up at the nurse as he frowned. "The other fragment appears to be lodged near the spinal cord. If the fragment is too close, I will not be able to retrieve it and he could end up with some paralysis.”

The doctor took his longest bullet extractor, carefully guiding the tool to the position of the fragment lodged inside the muscle. With expert precision, the doctor took hold of the metal fragment, pulling it out and dropping it in the bowl with a _clink._

“Cécile, thread my needle please,” the doctor instructed as he used some gauze to mop away the pooling blood inside d’Artagnan’s back. 

Taking the needle, the doctor set out sewing up the tears and damage done in and around the muscle and vessels deep inside d’Artagnan’s back. M. Berteau decided to wait on the dangerously lodged fragment, determining perhaps that the young man could better handle the additional surgery at a later time. For now, he sewed the incision closed with the second fragment still inside. 

The doctor poured a cup of brandy over the wound to disinfect the area, carefully dabbing dry the skin with a clean towel. He then applied a liberal amount of salve paste along the incision to prevent infection. Taking some cloths, he bandaged the wound, wrapping cloths completely around d’Artagnan’s body again and again, until the wound was covered. “We will need to redress the bandage every few hours, being careful to reapply salve as needed,” he told the nurse.

“This is all we can do for the lad right now. He will be sleeping through the night tonight and, quite possibly, through the next day or two. The important aspect will be if he can move safely without dislodging that fragment.” The doctor left instructions with the nurse, expecting her to look after the patient in his absence. 

“We will let him rest. It is now up to him and to God whether he recovers. I have another patient who needs tending to so I must take my leave.” Turning to Cécile the doctor gave his final instructions, “take good care of the young man. Remember to change his dressing often, using that salve each time to keep away infection. If there is any change—good or bad—I want to know about it. Do you understand?”

“Yes I do, M. Berteau,” Cécile said.

“Good. If you need me, I’ll be in the room next door. I hear the patient is also a Musketeer, yes, but he is a medic.” The good doctor gathered his medical tools and bag then went next door to take of Aramis.

*****

**In Aramis’s Room:**

Physician Gérard Berteau entered the room to find that his assistant had already laid out clean towels, hot water, and clean surgical tools for the doctor.

“Well, M. Molyneux, I am quite impressed at your efficiency. You have saved me much time and I am grateful. Now, let’s take a look at our fellow healer here.” Looking up, the physician noticed the man’s confusion. "Oh, you did not know that this Musketeer was a medic?” he smiled. “Indeed, I hear that he is a very capable healer, quite skilled with his hands. Let’s see how bad this head wound is.”

M. Berteau pushed away the dark curly hair, now matted and stiff with blood, away from the scalp so he could see the wound. Immediately it was obvious to the experienced physician that the musket ball had merely grazed the scalp, rather than penetrating into the skull. Of course, if the ball had penetrated the skull this patient would not need his services but, rather, would require the services of an undertaker.

“The musket ball has grazed under the scalp without penetrating the skull from just behind his left ear to above his temple,” the doctor informed the assistant. “What is that?” he asked rhetorically, “about five inches, give or take?”

“I’ve seen my share of head wounds in service of the king," said M. Molyneux. "I have also seen my share of wounds that should have killed the patient; instead they defy medical reasoning and explanation. This young man has not only defied the odds, he has defied death. It is nothing short of a miracle that this man is not dead. Another centimeter or two to the right. . . and he would be.”

The first doctor took the hot, wet towel from M. Molyneux and gently wiped away the matted blood crusting in the hair. “This will not do,” he growled to his assistant. “I need a bowl of lukewarm water to pour over the wound, to wash away all this caked blood,” he instructed.

The assistant left to retrieve the water, returning with extra bowls and towels. They positioned Aramis’ head over the side of the bed with a large bowl on the floor underneath to catch the water. Carefully, the physician poured the water over the Musketeer’s head; the water ran red with blood. 

Again and again, the men fill the bowl with lukewarm water to pour over Aramis’ head until most of the blood had been washed away. The physicians then used the towels to further clean away any blood and dirt still embedded around the wound, until it was perfectly clean. “Please prepare my needle and thread,” the doctor said to his assistant.

The doctor dabbed dry the surrounding hair and the wound, only to pour a good portion of brandy over the wound to disinfect the graze. Taking the towel, the physician once again dabbed dry the wound, allowing it to air dry for a few minutes. He took his thread and sewed together the scalp the distance of the graze, making his stitching close together to decrease scarring. 

“This is quite a handsome young man; I’m sure he is very popular with the ladies,” the physician smiled. “I am also quite sure that he would not want any atrocious scarring damaging his handsome features. He will be delighted to know that the hair will once again grow back around the wound, leaving the scar hardly noticeable.” The doctor talked to his assistant, all the while stitching up his patient. 

“He will be left with faint scarring, but only if he purposely goes looking for it. As long as he wears his hair at this length, the ladies will not even notice, and neither should he.” The doctor examined the stitching, nodding his approval of his own work. Obviously, M. Berteau had done this many times before.

The doctor wrapped Aramis’ head with cloths, securing them tightly with pins. Finally finished with his ministering, the physician wiped his brow then took a long swig of the brandy. “I am completely exhausted, Molyneux,” he said wearily.

“Both of my patients should sleep through the night, though this one may wake briefly once or twice,” he motioned to the patient. “I see no reason for Aramis to suffer any permanent complications from this wound. He should heal nicely, though he may have quite a headache. . . for a day or two.”

Picking up his medical bag, M. Berteau gave his assistant instructions for the patient, “I want you to stay with Aramis tonight. I would prefer that you not sleep so that you can keep a proper eye on him. If you are tired, then may I suggest you take a nap now while he is resting? He should sleep for several hours before waking, so now is a good time to get some rest yourself. If he appears to be in sufficient pain, or if there is something wrong, please come get me immediately. I will be in the next room over.”

M. Molyneux stayed with Aramis, cleaning up the water and bloody towels and cloths. Sitting in an oversized, soft chair the second physician fell asleep almost immediately, taking a restful nap. As the sun was setting he got a good fire going in the fireplace to keep the room lit during the night. Looking at the sleeping patient he whispered, “this is going to be a long night.” 

*****

**The Next Day:**

Aramis awakened in the night, completely confused and disoriented. “Where am I?” the Musketeer moaned, turning his head side to side in pain. "My head hurss. . ." 

M. Molyneux offered Aramis some valerian tea to help ease the pain. He knew well the valerian root was a natural tranquilizer and should help alleviate the patient’s suffering, allowing him to sleep. "Take small sips, this tea will help ease the pain," he told Aramis, holding the cup to the man's lips.

After drinking the tea, Aramis visibly relaxed, falling back into a restful sleep.

At dawn, Aramis was awakened once again by a commotion outside in the courtyard, just under his bedchamber window. He listened as the voices approached the upstairs and passed by his room to a room across the hall. He heard the familiar voice of his friend and brother Musketeer, Porthos. He sounded distressed—frantic--but yet Aramis couldn't make out what his friend was saying through the fog in his head.

“Athos. . . shot. . . found. . . dead.” 

“No. . . no! Athos, I must help. . .” the Musketeer tried to get out of bed but the exertion left him weak and nauseous. Aramis slumped over, falling sideways on the bed, unconscious. The last word ringing in his ears. . . 

". . .dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17th Century surgical practices were rather barbaric with few patients actually surviving the procedure. However, though having our favorite musketeers survive hours of blood loss and such extreme injury may be unrealistic, I had no wish to kill off two major characters in one story. I'm not that sadistic.... :-)
> 
> While writing the scene with Porthos surrounded by the dead bodies I got the idea of possibly doing a one-shot story of Porthos having nightmares of that night in the forest. Does anyone think that sounds interesting?


	7. The Prognosis

Porthos jumped down from his horse before the animal had even come to a stop. With strong arms, the Musketeer pulled Athos from the horse, cradling him in his arms as he rushed into the château. Jean-Luc lead the way to an upstairs bedchamber across the hall from the room Aramis lay, shouting at the house servant to fetch M. Molyneux and Cécile. 

“Bring him in here,” M. Berteau called from the room’s doorway. “How long ago was this man wounded?” The physician asked as he followed Porthos to where he was laid on the bed. “He is quite pale, assuming from extreme blood loss, and is in very poor condition,” the doctor frowned.

“I had to leave him in the forest yesterday to bring d’Artagnan and Aramis here. There was no other choice--if we were to save them.” Porthos explained abruptly.

“What are his injuries?” the doctor asked while examining Athos. “I ask because it saves time in having to determine what happened, so that I may treat him accordingly, as time is of the essence.”

“When I went back into the forest last night I found Athos lying in a pool of blood, apparently shot through and through on his lower right side. I thought he was already dead but,” Porthos paused, “but somehow he had survived.”

“Indeed he did,” M. Berteau said as he surveyed the injuries.

“Athos also has a wound to his left shoulder from early yesterday, looks like he was stabbed through from behind with a raider’s sword,” Porthos explained. The large Musketeer shuddered at the memory of finding Athos bent over the unmoving form of Aramis near the decoy’s carriage. After everything that had happened since they were first attacked by the bandits, it seemed like a lifetime ago that they were traveling on the road to Orléans.

“I found Athos last night surrounded by the same group of raiders who chased us into the forest—all of them were dead—but someone shot Athosl. I don’t know how long he had been lying on the ground, probably hours.” Porthos backed away from the bed to give the doctor room, wringing his hands with worry. 

M. Molyneux entered the room and walked over to Porthos. "Try not to worry about your friend; I assure you, he is in the best of hands,” he said motioning with his head toward the doctor. “If there is such a thing as a miracle worker, it is Gérard Berteau,” he smiled. “After all, I believe your young friend, d’Artagnan, is living proof that M. Berteau is the best physician you can hope for. With anybody else, young d’Artagnan would certainly be dead. Have faith, mon ami.”

“M. Molyneux, I must cut off this doublet but first we must turn the patient over onto his stomach,” the physician called out. “Please assist me in turning him, then bring me the scissors. We must get these clothes off before we can get him washed and prepared for surgery.”

“Jean-Luc,” M. Berteau continued, “please assist Cécile and bring me my tools and my medical bag. Also, please bring hot water, bowls, clean towels and cloths for bandages. Go quickly now, please,” he instructed. The physician and M. Molyneux gently turned Athos over onto his stomach, removing all pillows so he laid flat, his face turned to the side. M. Berteau then began the task of cutting away the Musketeer’s leather doublet.

Porthos stood watching with wide eyes, his mouth agape, as the physician cut in two Athos’ distinguished doublet that had made the Musketeer look so elegant. Both halves of the doublet were tossed onto the floor like trash, the assistant kicking them away from the bedside with his feet. Porthos reached down to pick up the doublet halves, turning them over in his hands to locate the coveted pauldron so esteemed by the King’s Musketeers. 

To proudly wear this symbol of honor on his right shoulder meant more to Athos than the title of Comte de la Fère, his former rank of nobility. The pauldron on this doublet defined the very essence of the man who wore it, while his title of nobility was long ago buried and forgotten. 

Porthos ran his thumb over the raised shield on the leather pauldron, outlining the fleur-de-lis with his fingers. The Musketeer squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the rising emotion threatening to choke him. He took a deep breath, opening his watery eyes to watch as the linen shirt was cut away exposing Athos’ back. He couldn’t help the audible gasp of shock at seeing the true condition of his friend’s back. 

“Oh God,” he exclaimed, taking a few steps forward to gaze at the angry wounds now covered in dried, nearly black smears of blood. “Athos, my friend. . .”

Jean-Luc returned with Cécile, along with a servant, all helping to carry the many necessary supplies. The physician immediately began scrubbing away at the caked-on blood from Athos’ skin. “Jean-Luc, we’re going to need more hot water than this,” M. Berteau shook his head. “Please, just bring a pot full, I’m going to need a good amount to wash away all of this blood. In addition, I will need the hot water for sanitizing the wounds, so bring plenty.”

Porthos was about to go assist Jean-Luc with the water when the doctor’s mutterings stopped him short.

“Oh dear,” M. Berteau said with a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. “This is not good,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“What?” Porthos hurried to the bedside, worry etched on his features. “What’s wrong, doctor?”

“Damn,” Berteau let out a discouraged sigh. "It looks like the sword wound here is infected. There are red streaks spreading out already from the wound,” the doctor said, pointing to the streaks on the skin. “I will need to treat this infection before I can close the wound.”

“This will change the course of his treatment now,” the doctor scrubbed a hand over his face. “If the infection has spread, the first sign will be fever, then swelling with a discharge--most likely pus. . .”

“I am sorry, forgive me, Porthos. I did not mean to be so graphic,” the doctor apologized after noticing the Musketeer turning green. “If only this wound had been treated sooner. . .”

“Damn! Damn those raiders,” cursed Porthos. “If they weren’t already dead, I swear I would hunt them all down and kill every one of ‘em with my bare hands,” the musketeer growled. 

M. Molyneux looked up at Porthos, raising his eyebrows at the exclamation. Porthos lowered his eyes, looking down instead at the pauldron he still held in his hands. 

“Please, do what you can for him, doctor,” Porthos pleaded, growing angrier by the minute. “We can’t lose him, not like this. Not this way. . . not by those damn raiders!” Porthos threw the doublet halves across the room in a fit of rage.

“I will do what I can for him,” said the doctor, “but I ask that you control yourself in this sickroom, or I’ll have to ask you to leave. We will take it one step at a time,” the doctor assured. “Right now, I will sanitize the wound with this hot water,” he narrated as he worked, “then disinfect with the brandy, letting it air dry while I take care of the gunshot wound. I will re-examine the sword wound further afterward. We had better pray the infection does not spread or else he’s in for a long road ahead, if anything can be done for him at all.”

“Athos?” a weak voice cried from the doorway. All eyes in the room turned to watch as Aramis collapsed and slid down the doorframe to the floor.

*****

Porthos rushed to his friend, pulling him from the floor to cradle him in his arms. “Aramis?” he called softly, “can you hear me?” The large Musketeer ran his fingers over the bandages wrapped around Aramis’ head. "It looks like you’re going to be okay,” relief flooding over him like a wave. Porthos’ last vision of Aramis was of a limp and bloody mess, he didn’t expect anything but the worst possible news of his friend.

“Athos?” the wounded Aramis whispered. “Wha’ hap’ned to him?” he slurred, struggling in Porthos’ arms. The more he struggled, the more his confusion started to develop into panic. “Where am I? What hap’ned to Athos?” he weakly struggled against the arms that held him tight.

“Sshhh. . .” Porthos soothed. “It’s okay, ‘Mis, you’re safe. Athos is safe and so is d’Artagnan. We’re here at the _Château de Chamarande,_ house of M. Hurault,” Porthos gently explained. “M. Gérard Berteau is the physician who will do surgery on Athos. He saved your life, and d’Artagnan’s, in surgery yesterday. He’s the best doctor in France, so I hear," Porthos declared. 

“Athos is in good hands,” Porthos continued softly, “so you don’t need to worry about him. Right now, we need to take care of you. Let’s get you back to bed,” Porthos stood, lifting Aramis in his arms. He stopped to face M. Berteau as the physician called out to him.

“Take care of that young man for me, Porthos,” Berteau said with a nod. “I will be in to check on him when I am done with Athos.”

“Yes doctor,” Porthos nodded back in acknowledgement. The short time it took to speak with M. Berteau gave Aramis enough time to take a look at his badly wounded friend.

Aramis stared at the patient—his brother--on the bed. Seeing the horrific wounds to Athos’ shoulder and lower right side made him gasp. The Musketeer and medic had seen his share of macabre on the battlefield, the many wounds of the injured and dying, but the scene before him now made his heart catch in his throat. 

His eyes widened as he saw the piles of bloodied towels thrown to the floor, the bowls of blood-red water, the blood-soaked bedsheets. . . and the doublet halves lying on the floor. “No!” Aramis cried out. “What the hell happened to Athos?” he screamed. “Please, don’t let him die! God, please.”

Porthos carried Aramis away from the room with haste as he saw the Musketeer becoming more agitated and panicked. “You need to calm down,” he said firmly. “Athos is going to be alright, but you have to calm down now. You’ve been wounded too—your head—a musket ball grazed the side of that gourd o’ yours. You’re one real lucky whelp.”

“Porthos, what happened? I don’t remember. . .”

Porthos laid Aramis on the bed, carefully pulling the blankets over him and tucking him in. “I won’t tell you nothin’ until you calm down. And don’t you go trying to get out of bed again, brother, or I’ll give you somethin’ beside a headache, you hear me?” he spoke firmly. Porthos knew Aramis was in no shape to go walking around checking on the others while he himself was a patient with a bad head wound.

“I saw Athos’ doublet, they cut it in half. His pauldron. . . don’t let them throw it away!” Aramis once again began to struggle. “Porthos, go get it. . . bring it to me, please,” he begged, “That pauldron means the world to Athos.”

“Alright, alright,” Porthos soothed, softly. “I’ll go get it, but you need to relax, ‘Mis. Stop your thrashin’ about or you’re gonna hurt yourself.” Porthos held Aramis down with strong hands, “I’m not movin’ until you relax and stop fighting.”

Aramis relaxed, his chest heaving with heavy breaths from exertion. “Jusss go get it,” he slurred sleepily. 

Porthos went to Athos’ room, stopping to watch while M. Berteau, M. Molyneux and Cécile worked together with professional precision-- passing the scalpel, wiping away the seeping blood, passing the probing tool, wringing hot water from the towels, mopping away excess blood. The medical team worked desperately to save the life of a Musketeer lieutenant they had never met before this morning. Now, Athos’ life was literally in their hands.

Porthos was mesmerized until Cécile broke his trance asking, “is Aramis alright, Porthos?”

“Huh?” Porthos had to shake the cobwebs from his head before the question registered. “Oh, yes, he’s sleeping now. I. . . I just came to get something,” Porthos quickly picked up the leather halves and rushed back to Aramis’ room, stopping just outside the doorway. Porthos rested his head against the wall as he choked back the tears threatening to overcome him. 

He breathed deeply and began to pray for the first time in a long time, “God, please, let Athos be okay. I don’t know how I'll explain to Aramis what happ’ned if he doesn’t make it. How do I tell ‘im that Athos sacrificed himself so he could save Aramis and d’Artagnan? How will ‘Mis live with that?” 

Porthos stood still for a moment before pushing away from the wall. He sucked in deep breaths through his nose until he had his emotions under control. Finally, Porthos squared his shoulders and dried his eyes, wiping his face dry with his sleeves, before walking in to Aramis' sickroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at his sleeping friend and smiled. He pushed a stray strand of hair from Aramis’ eyes, trying not to waken him. “Sleep, my brother,” Porthos whispered softly. “I’ll be right here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Aramis stirred slightly, his eyes opening to mere slits. "Did you get hisss pau’ron?” 

Porthos put the leather half with the pauldron into Aramis’ hands. "It’s right here, ‘Mis. You hang onto it for Athos, okay?” The large musketeer patted Aramis’ hand, watching as the wounded man wrapped his fingers around the buckles of the pauldron. The medic closed his eyes, his face becoming relaxed as he fell into a restful sleep.

*****

Porthos pulled up a large chair beside Aramis’ bed and settled in to watch over his friend--until sleep took him under. Sometime later he startled awake when he heard movement nearby. “Aramis?” he called out, sitting upright in the chair.

“I deeply apologize, my dear Porthos,” M. Berteau said. “If I had known you were sleeping I would have come back to check on Aramis later. You mustn’t neglect your own rest. In fact, it appears that you need a little medical attention yourself,” the doctor said with a raised eyebrow.

Porthos’ face went blank, “I. . . I don’t. . . I’m not hurt.” The large musketeer stumbled over his words, confused.

“Relax,” the doctor laughed, “I can see that it’s not serious, but you should have that cut to your neck cleaned and dressed.”

“Cut?” Porthos looked up, trying to remember how it happened. “Oh yeah, on the road,” his eyes went dark with fury as the memory returned. “We were being chased down the road as we left the decoy’s carriage, d’Artagnan and Aramis were wounded. I had d’Artagnan on the horse with me and Athos had Aramis. The raiders were shooting at us—I felt the ball graze my neck. That was just before we left the road to go into the forest.”

“Such a shame, what has happened to you four young men,” M. Berteau shook his head. “I had heard stories about raiders ambushing travelers on the road by Torfou but I never thought it would come to this severity.”

“Well, anyway, I would like to check on Aramis while I’m here,” said the doctor. “Then we can go across the hall to take care of your wounds. I don’t wish to speak in front of the patient,” the doctor motioned to Aramis.

M. Berteau examined Aramis, feeling for fever and checking the bandages for seeping blood. “All looks well, for now. I will have his dressing changed next time he awakens. Right now, sleep is best for him.” 

M. Berteau led Porthos from the room. "Let’s step across the hall so I can check your neck. First, I will go get my medical bag and a few necessities, and I’ll be right with you. Please, take off your doublet and have a seat in there,” he swung his arm in the direction of the room.

Porthos took a seat in the room after removing his weapons belt and doublet. Until now, he didn’t realize how sweaty and dirty he was, nor how bloody, until he saw a reflection of himself in a large mirror. His face was streaked with small lines of blood from the many scratches he received from riding through the pitch black forest. The left side of his neck was smeared with streaks of dried blood, sweat and dirt; the neckline of his shirt stained red with blood. "Dammit!" Porthos grumbled at the sight.

“There now,” M. Berteau said as he returned with the supplies. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” The physician began cleaning away the blood on Porthos’ face with a warm wet cloth. He got a new cloth, dipped it in the hot water and wrung it dry, before putting it to Porthos’ neck to scrub away the mess.

Porthos winced at the treatment, hissing with pain. “Ouch,” he growled.

“Now, be still. You are only making this harder on yourself by squirming,” the doctor scolded.

It took several minutes of scrubbing and wiping just to get through the layers of grime on Porthos’ neck. "Ah, there we go, I got all the grime cleaned away so now I can finally see the wound. Yes, it looks like the ball just grazed your skin. You are quite lucky, a centimeter or two over and it would have nicked the artery.”

Porthos grunted, but said nothing more.

“Seems that all four of you have been more than just lucky,” the doctor observed. “Any one of you--all four of you--could have died, but I believe the Almighty has protected you from death because your purpose on this earth is not yet finished. Believe what you will,” M. Berteau smiled, “but it’s nothing short of a miracle all four of you are still alive.”

The physician finished his ministering, “there, all done. We’ll keep it bandaged for a few days. However, you will make sure it stays clean and dry for several weeks, alright?”

“Thank you, M. Berteau,” said Porthos. “I’d really like to know how Athos and d’Artagnan are doing now.”

The doctor sighed, “Athos made it through surgery and is now resting. His gunshot wound was through and through, but with little internal damage. I had to stitch up bleeding tears in the intestines, but he should heal completely with no permanent damage. Blood loss was my greatest concern due to him having both an entrance and an exit wound, but now. . .”

“How is the infected wound?” Porthos interrupted. “Do you think. . . will he be. . . will he. . .?” Porthos sighed, finally spitting out the question weighing most heavily on his mind, “will he live?”

“I sanitized the wound as best I could by cleaning it, draining it, and finally, lathering it with a lavender salve. My assistant and I will remain vigilant--with one of us always being present in the room with him. We will monitor his condition, consistently checking for signs of fever.”

“And if he does get a fever, what then?” Porthos asked anxiously.

“If it comes to that unfortunate situation, I will attempt to cut open the wound, trimming away any infected edges of flesh. This will leave Athos quite scarred, however,” the doctor warned. “To prevent infection from spreading further, I will fill the cavity of the wound with lavender soaked in vinegar. We may have to soak him in a tub of cool water every few hours to bring down his temperature if it gets too high. If none of these treatments work, then there will be nothing more I can do for him.”

“Dear God. . .”

“Right now, all we can do is wait,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. “Would you care to accompany me as I check on your young friend, d’Artagnan?”

“Yes, I would,” Porthos’ face lit up at the suggestion. He hasn’t even had a chance to ask about the young man since he was brought in yesterday. “How is he doing, is he okay?”

The doctor sighed, “his is another complicated case, I’m afraid.” 

“Damn, how bad?” Porthos moaned. 

“I was able to retrieve only one part of the musket ball—the metal fragmented into two pieces. The other fragment is still lodged near his spinal cord,” the doctor grimly informed the Musketeer. “I could not risk further probing into his body without doing possible and irreparable damage. The good news is that the fragment _may_ be able to work itself loose in time but. . .”

“But what?” Porthos asked, not sure he wanted to hear what the doctor was withholding.

“But, there is a risk of partial. . . or complete paralysis from the waist down.”

Porthos went pale, too stunned to speak.

“It is just a possibility at this point, Porthos,” the doctor tried to calm the Musketeer’s fear. “As with Athos, there is nothing we can do but to wait and see what happens. Worrying recklessly for them will not change their condition, my friend.”

M. Berteau continued, “worrying about them will not help them, nor will it help you. You must remain strong for both Athos and d’Artagnan--as well as for Aramis. God protected you, Porthos, to be their guardian to look after them. You are someone they trust, so you may be the only one they will listen to _if_ it comes down to them fighting to survive--versus giving up and giving in to death. You must be firm, Porthos, and _make_ them fight to survive. Be strong, Porthos. If you believe in God, then I suggest that you pray—hard--for them both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. Now with my boys back in school, I should be able to update the chapters more quickly. Thank you so much for your patience and for reading! Enjoy!


	8. The Maggots

Everything was fuzzy. D’Artagnan was vaguely aware of a faint light dancing, beckoning him to come out of the darkness. Suddenly, it felt as though he was on fire as a burning pain emanated from his back. He fought to breathe, but every breath felt like a knife was stabbing him in the chest.

He tried holding his breath but that only caused the pain to worsen. The sheer intensity of the pain had him wishing for the darkness to return. In the darkness, at least, there was no pain. 

Despite the throbbing pain hammering in his chest and back, he fought against the fingers clawing at him, trying to pull him into a downward spiral. D’Artagnan was drawn to the light but quickly shielded his eyes, squinting from the brightness around him. 

Everything hurt. 

D’Artagnan moaned as he attempted to open his eyes; his eyelids seemed heavy and sluggish, draining his strength just to open them. His eyelids fluttered against the invading brightness, yet all he saw was a grey haze or a thick fog. The young Gascon slowly blinked away the fog. An agonized groan escaped his lips as consciousness returned, bringing with it a rush of pain and confusion.

D’Artagan gradually grew more aware but as his eyes took in the strange surroundings, fear penetrated his consciousness. He had no idea where he was or why he was here. His panicked breaths caused the intense burning in his chest to return, sending flashes of pain shooting through his body. He gasped with every haggard breath, leaving his back muscles aching and throbbing. “God, what is wrong with me?” he choked out.

He closed his eyes against the pain, willing himself to control the fear clawing at his heart. Finally, d’Artagnan chanced another look around the room. Nothing looked familiar. 

He wondered where he was but, most importantly, where his brother Musketeers were. He was used to waking up and finding any one of his brothers sitting by his bedside; today, he was alone. The chair beside his bed was empty. He felt dizzy and utterly spent. "How long have I been here?” 

D’Artagnan moved to sit up but screamed out from the sudden pain jolting through every nerve, muscle, and cell in his body. He fell back against the pillow, his body trembling in agony. Tears spilled from his eyes and flowed down his cheeks to drip onto the pillow. “Aramis, it hurts,” he cried. "Where are you?” 

The tears he cried left d’Artagnan feeling lethargic and weak. Loneliness pressed down on his chest like a weight. The Gascon couldn't believe his friends would drop him off like baggage, leaving him alone in a strange place. _How could they do this to me?_ he thought.

The young Gascon tried to remember how he could have ended up alone in a place like this but his memory was thick with fog. He replayed the most recent missions in his head, hoping something would jog his memory. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. 

Soon, bits and pieces of images began trickling into his memory—not painting a whole picture—but rather pieces of a mosaic waiting to be assembled. 

Paris. . . decoy. . . carriage. . . raiders. . . ambush! 

“Oh God, we were attacked on the road!” he voiced aloud. “I remember, Porthos and I went around the left side of the road; there were so many gunmen we were outnumbered. I killed two raiders... then I remember Porthos calling my name, then. . . nothing.” _What happened, was I shot?_

“They wouldn’t leave me here alone if I had been shot, would they?” d’Artagnan glanced down at his chest to see the bandage wrapped tightly around his middle. _Aramis has to be the one who did surgery on me,_ he surmised from the skillfully dressed bandage on his wound. 

How badly was he wounded? He couldn’t remember how he was hurt, nor could he even pinpoint a specific injury on his body; it seemed every inch of him was aching and hurting. 

D’Artagnan was alone in his room, alone in his thoughts, wallowing in his misery and pain. The three _Inseparables_ were the closest thing he had to a family—they were his brothers. But now, all he felt was abandoned and alone.

“God, where is everyone?” the Musketeer asked his empty room. “Hello?” he called out with a raspy voice. He cleared his throat and yelled louder. **“Hello?”**

He strained to listen for movement but heard nothing. D’Artagnan hoped for the possibility that his brothers were somewhere close by, but silence was his only companion.

*****

 

Aramis awakened with the feel of cold metal and leather in his hands. _What the hell?_ he thought.

Looking at his hands he saw the unbuckled pauldron from Athos’ doublet. His memory drifted through a haze, as if in a time delay; it took a moment to register what he was holding in his hands.

“Damn!”

Aramis sat up in surprise, only to slump over sideways from dizziness, his head spinning. “Ughh. . .” he moaned.

“Let that be a lesson to ya, dummy,” Porthos quipped. “Sudden movements like that, I would no’ recommend for a few days.”

“Wha’ th’ h’lll. . .” Aramis mumbled into the blankets.

“What?” Porthos asked, with his brow furrowed in confusion. “Hell, nevermind, let’s just get you laid back on these pillows.” Porthos helped Aramis get comfortably positioned, propped up with several pillows behind his back, with the pauldron still clutched tightly in his hands.

“Porthos?” Aramis asked softly. "What happened, why can’t I remember anything?” He glanced around the room, the questions in his mind so clearly evident on his face. “Where the hell are we anyway?”

“We are guests of M. Hurault at the Château de Chamarande. His physician, Gérard Berteau, fixed up that head o’ yours. You’re lucky you have such a hard head,” Porthos smiled, his brown eyes shining.

Aramis nodded, “I’ll be sure to thank the good doctor.” Looking down at the pauldron, his thumbs stroked the engraving on the leather. Deep down Aramis was afraid, but he had to risk asking the question that burned in his mind. "Where are d’Artagnan and Athos?”

 _He must not remember seeing Athos earlier._ Porthos sat down in the chair, sighing deeply. He knew he had to tell him what was going on; he also knew that Aramis wouldn’t stop asking until he found out what he wanted to know. “Where do I begin?” Porthos scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You can start by telling me how they’re doing,” Aramis said pointedly. “Then, tell me what the hell happened, and how we ended up here.”

Porthos sat quietly for a minute before telling Aramis the dire conditions of Athos and d’Artagnan, outlining how they ended up at the château. He was careful to omit some details, for now, giving Aramis just enough information to get him up to speed.

Aramis was stunned. “I want to see them,” he said with a quiet voice. “Help me get up.”

“The hell I will,” growled Porthos. “You’re in no condition to be getting up out of this bed yet,” he retorted.

“My head is fine. . . sore, but fine. I’m not an invalid,” Aramis protested. “My friends are hurt. I need to see them for myself; I need to know they’re okay. Aramis was not going to take no for an answer. Not this time. “Either you help me up or I’ll go to them by myself.”

“You are one stubborn. . .” Porthos began but was interrupted by a voice calling from down the hall.

**“Hello?”**

d’Artagnan.

Aramis and Porthos exchange glances, their eyes wide. “My God, that was d’Artagnan,” Aramis said with alarm. “Where is he? We’ve got to get to him. Help me get up, Porthos,” the wounded man insisted.

“I really don’t think you should be getting up, but I also know you won’t stop until you see the lad,” Porthos said, resigned. “Alright, we’re going to do this slowly. I’m going to sit you upright, then you’re going to sit with your legs over the side of the bed until you feel ready to stand. Got it?”

Aramis nodded. He took deep breaths to prepare himself.

“Okay, here we go,” Porthos sat Aramis up. He allowed time between movements before sitting him upright at the edge of the bed. From there, he pulled Aramis to his feet.

Aramis sunk limply into Porthos’ arms, the dizziness rushing over him like a wave. Porthos held his friend upright on his feet with strong arms until the dizziness passed.

Aramis put weight on his feet, willing his legs to hold him up. He was very thankful for the strong arms that kept him from falling to the floor. Once he was ready to move, Aramis nodded. "Now, let’s go see d’Artagnan.”

*****

 

Aramis hesitated at the doorway of the sickroom, taking a calming breath before entering. "Alright, let’s go,” he said to Porthos. 

Once they saw the young Gascon, they both stopped in their tracks. It was obvious to the men that d’Artagnan had been crying, his face still wet with tears.

As soon as d’Artagan looked up to see his two friends watching him, the tears flowed again.

“You’re here!” d’Artagnan cried. “I thought you had left me here alone. I called for you. . . but no one answered.”

“Hey, we’re here, lad,” said Porthos, soothingly. “We’ve always been here; we would never leave you alone.”

D’Artagnan looked at the haggard appearance of Aramis, his head swathed in bandages. He noticed Porthos had angry scratches covering his face, and his neck was bandaged. "What happened?" he gasped in shock. "Aramis, Porthos, are you two alright?” The young Musketeer forgot about his own pain momentarily at the sight of his wounded friends.

Aramis smiled, “I knew having a thick head would one day come in handy,” he joked. “Porthos, well, it takes more than a few scratches to keep this big ox down,” he nudged Porthos with an elbow. “We’re alright,” he said, his smile fading. “How are you, my friend?”

“I’ve been better, but now that you’re here. . .” he stopped to look expectantly at the doorway. “Where’s Athos?”

Both Musketeers exchanged silent glances. They knew this question would come up, but yet they weren’t prepared how to answer d’Artagnan without putting unnecessary stress on the Gascon. Given his condition, undue stress was not going to help him get back on his feet faster.

The grim exchange between his two friends was not lost on d’Artagnan, however. He knew instantly that something was terribly wrong, otherwise the missing Musketeer would be here visiting also. “What’s wrong with Athos?” he asked, his voice shaking. “Be honest with me, tell me what’s wrong.”

“You remember how we were ambushed on the road by the decoy's carriage?” Porthos asked the young Gascon.

“Yes, of course I remember,” d’Artagnan answered. "Everything after that, though, is blank. Is that when Athos was hurt?”

Porthos nodded, “he was pierced by a bandit’s sword in the left shoulder and now it’s infected. The physician caring for him is absolutely the best, though, and Athos couldn’t be in better hands. He’ll be alright,” he put on a brave front, hiding his fears deep down.

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes, knowing that Porthos was not being entirely honest. _What is it he’s not telling me?_

Aramis chimed in trying to lighten the heavy mood that suddenly clouded the room. "So how are you feeling, my friend? It looks like the good doctor took great care of you; you should be back on your feet as the young, brave swashbuckler before you know it.”

"I'm a little sore, I guess," said d'Artagnan, not being completely honest. He didn't want to worry his friends with the truth of how much he really hurt.

“Helluva way for us to get out of doing a crappy assignment,” Aramis muttered. “I must say, this one should be recorded in the annals of Musketeer history as one of the worst missions ever.”

Physician Berteau and M. Hurault later entered the room to find the three Musketeers talking and laughing as though they were back at the garrison.

“Well, how wonderful to see three of my patients looking so well and in such good spirits today,” said the physician happily. “M. Aramis, I must admit that I am quite surprised to find you on your feet, walking around today. That is very good, you should be well on your way to a full recovery.”

“Thank you, M. Berteau,” said Aramis with a nod.

“My dear d’Artagnan, it truly warms my heart to see you laughing and alert. I would like to examine you to see how the previous surgery went. How is the pain? It isn’t too bad, is it?” asked the physician, waiting for a reply.

“As long as I lie still and do not move, the pain is tolerable. I tried to sit up earlier and it felt like my entire body was on fire,” d’Artagnan admitted. “Doctor, can you tell me exactly what is wrong with me?”

“Yes, d’Artagnan, I will discuss everything with you when I do your exam privately.” 

“Gentlemen,” M. Hurault spoke up having a serious tone, “First, I’d like to tell you that I sent a messenger to your Captain Tréville informing him of you being here. In the letter, I informed him that his Musketeers were ambushed and wounded, and that you are all under my physician’s care. You are certainly welcome to stay here at the château as long as necessary, but that will be up to your captain to decide.”

After a short pause, M. Hurault continued, “I expect Captain Tréville will be stopping by in the next day or two to see you personally. That is all, gentlemen. Please, M. Berteau, carry on with your examination of the patient. Good day, gentlemen.” M. Hurault bowed slightly, nodding his head, before turning on his heels to leave the sickroom.

A lingering silence hung over the room. The Musketeers glanced at each other, sending unspoken, yet understood, messages with their eyes. _If the captain is coming to the château, it could be that he wants to check on our well being._

_It could also mean that he is coming to take us back to Paris. M. Hurault probably didn't go into specifics on the severity of our wounds, so it may be that Captain Tréville assumes we are all well enough to travel._

“Damn,” Porthos said, finally breaking the silence.

“Gentlemen,” the physician chimed, “I will do the examination now for d’Artagnan. Porthos, please accompany Aramis back to his room. Aramis, I will change your dressing and check the healing of your head wound next,” he said, instructing them to leave.

“We’ll see you later, my friend,” Aramis said to d’Artagnan as he turned to leave.

“We’ll be back later, d’Art,” Porthos said from the doorway.

“Thanks for coming by to visit. I’m so glad you’re here,” said d’Artagnan, smiling. 

With a nod, M. Berteau closed the door.

*****

Aramis looked at Porthos frowning, “I don’t want to go back to my room yet. Take me to see Athos.”

Porthos made a throaty growling noise, but nodded. “Thought you might ask that,” he murmured.

Stopping at the doorway of Athos’ room, Porthos looked at Aramis. "Are you ready?”

Entering the room Aramis’ eyes widened at the sight of his friend lying motionless; his face was ashen yet flushed with fever. “My God, Athos!” said Aramis, his jaw dropped open in shock.

Athos was lying on his stomach, his face turned to one side. Aramis stared at the two wounds on his friend’s back, reaching down to run his hand over the bandages covering his gunshot wound. The trained medic could see that the dressing needed to be changed as the bandage was showing red from the seeping wound. 

The wound on Athos’ shoulder made both Musketeers gasp. There was a thick lavender salve paste covering inside and around the open wound, with draining pus now oozing out. Redness and heat surrounded the wound, spreading in a circle and reaching out several inches in diameter.

Porthos choked from the rising bile in his throat and had to make a quick retreat from the room. Aramis could hear his friend gagging and heaving in the hallway.

Aramis looked around at the empty room with wonder. "Why isn’t someone in here to look after you? Someone needs to clean up that wound and change the salve. Why in God’s name would they leave you in this condition?”

Nurse Cécile entered the room, having heard Aramis’ questions. “M. Molyneux is on his way, bringing with him maggots to help eat away the decaying flesh; and I just brought new bandages and hot water to clean his wound,” she explained. “I hear that you are a trained medic and physician, yes? Would you care to assist me in treating Athos and changing his dressing?”

Aramis smiled at Cécile. "Yes, thank you, I would.” Together they cleaned the wound, scrubbing around it gently with hot water and draining out as much of the infection as possible. With gauze dipped in brandy, they sanitized in and around the wound carefully. 

“I prepared for him lavender antiseptic rather than the paste salve,” said Cécile. “The maggots are going to fill much of the space in the open wound so the paste would be counter intuitive to use.”

Aramis cocked his head to the side, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Why, nurse, that is quite correct. You should be trained as a physician, you have knowledge that goes beyond nursing, mademoiselle,” he said, quite impressed. "You obviously have a talent that could help many people who are hurting."

Just then, M. Molyneux returned with a small bag in hand. “I have the prescribed maggots with me. Has the patient's wound been treated and cleaned, Cécile?”

“Yes, M. Molyneux, the patient's wound has been cleaned and sanitized. M. Aramis assisted me in treating the patient and he is prepared to receive the maggots.”

Cécile let out a squeal when M. Molyneux brought out the small brown bag moving with the liveliness of the maggots inside.

Porthos stepped into the room to ask about the commotion. "What’s goin’ on in here?”

“Oh, not much,” said Aramis with a devious smile. “Just getting ready to apply a bunch of maggots here to Athos’ skin.” The medic deliberately held the moving bag up to Porthos.

Porthos jumped at the sight. "Hell no!” he yelled, running quickly from the room. 

Aramis laughed at his friend’s quick retreat, but then became serious as he looked to the two medical assistants. "Are we ready?”

At their nod, Aramis carefully sprinkled a controlled amount of the squirming creatures into the wound until it was sufficiently filled. He peered down at the wound on Athos’s shoulder now literally alive, moving with hundreds of maggots.

“I will cover the wound tightly with this bandage to keep the maggots in place,” said Cécile. “We don’t want them crawling all over our dear patient and, I’m sure, neither would he.”

Aramis shook his head, “Athos, my friend, it’s a good thing you can’t see this. Your life is now at the mercy of these squirming maggots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry if I grossed anyone out with the maggots scene. Maggots give me the heebie jeebies...they literally freak me out! Gross!  
> However, the use of maggots in medicine goes back for centuries; it was especially commonplace for WW1 battlefield wounds. Maggots are efficient consumers of decaying tissue-- as they munch on rotting flesh the maggots clean the wound & with their secretions they suppress the body's immune system...helping wounds heal faster!! Cool...but totally Gross!!


	9. The Surgery

Captain Tréville and a troop of eight Musketeers rode into the courtyard of _Château de Chamarande;_ M. Hurault was there to greet them as they arrive.

“Welcome to my home, Captain Tréville and Musketeers. I hope that your journey here was without adventure.” 

“Yes, thank you,” said the captain. “We passed through the forest without incident.”

“I am sorry that your predecessors did not have the same travel mercies, captain. I wish that your visit was under better circumstances but I am sure that you would like to see your men, yes?”

“Yes I do,” answered the captain. “Thank you, M. Hurault, for taking care of my men, and for the timely dispatch informing me of what happened.”

M. Hurault nodded, “right this way if you would, please,” The master of the house led the captain and his Musketeers inside; the group of men were led to the sitting room, while M. Hurault took Captain Tréville upstairs to see his wounded Musketeers.

The captain was led to Aramis’ room first, where Porthos was sitting in the bedside chair visiting with his friend. Aramis sat up in surprise at the sight of his captain entering the room.

“Captain!” exclaimed Aramis. "You sure got here quickly; how was your passage through Torfou?”

“We passed through without incident. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about you four.” The captain studied the bandages covering the wounded men, worry evident on his face. “It is good to see both of you doing well, considering. How are d’Artagnan and Athos?”

“Well, d’Artagnan is in the room right next door. Why don’t we go say hello, huh?” Porthos said, his eyes twinkling.

The three men headed over to d’Artagnan’s room, stopping at the door. Aramis rapped his knuckles on the door, “hey, d’Art, look who’s here.” 

D’Artagnan’s eyes lit up with surprise at the visitors. “Captain, it’s good to see you. How was your trip here?” the young man inquired.

“It was fine, thank you,” the captain answered. “I came as soon as I received the dispatch from M. Hurault telling me of the raiders and all of you being wounded.”

“We’re really sorry about what happened, Captain,” d’Artagnan said sadly. “The decoy and all the rest of the men are all dead.”

“Yes, I know,” Tréville nodded. “It is unfortunate what this mission has cost in lives, but in no way is any of this your fault,” the captain assured as he looked to each of the men.

“The king has been informed and has canceled the remainder of his visit to the _Château de Blois;_ he is returning to Paris in the morning. He will have quite an armed escort for his return trip,” the captain hesitated, reluctant to continue.

The three Musketeers exchanged worried glances, they knew the hammer was about to drop with some very bad news.

“The king has ordered those of you who are well enough to travel to return with his escort back to Paris.” The captain looked between the three men. "Judging from your appearance, Porthos and Aramis, you two are ready to rejoin the regiment.”

Porthos and Aramis stood with their mouths agape, too stunned to speak.

“Once back in Paris, you can report to the garrison physician,” Captain Tréville instructed.

“Captain, you can’t be serious,” Porthos muttered in disbelief. “Aramis is in no condition to be goin’ on a road trip yet. He was grazed in the head by a musket ball just days ago!”

“I’m fine,” Aramis growled at Porthos, “but that’s not the point here. Are you forgetting, Captain, that _if_ Porthos and I have to leave, it means d’Artagnan and Athos get left behind, alone?" Aramis’ face flushed red, his temper flaring. “I am not leaving my brothers behind!” Aramis yelled at his captain, most uncharacteristically.

“Me neither, Captain,” Porthos added resolutely. “No way, am I leavin’ them behind,” he shook his head in defiance.

d’Artagnan sat listening to the heated exchange, his eyes widened with surprise. Earlier, d’Artagnan was so relieved to find he hadn’t been abandoned but that his brothers were close by after all. Having his friends nearby helped him cope with the pain and suffering.

But now the captain was talking about them leaving tomorrow. _This can’t be! What will I do without them? And what about Athos? He needs Aramis here!_ “Captain, they can’t leave! Not now,” d’Artagnan protested.

Captain Tréville shook his head, “this isn’t up to me, gentlemen. These orders came directly from the king. You don’t have the choice to disobey orders from the king as long as you are with the King’s Musketeers,” the captain said flatly, ending the discussion.

“Captain, have you seen Athos yet?” Aramis asked angrily.

“No, but that doesn’t change the king’s orders,” declared Tréville.

“Come with me.” Aramis turned on his heel to lead the way to Athos’ room.

Porthos turned to d’Artagnan, “I’ll be right back,” he said, running from the room to follow Aramis.

*****

 

Tréville and Aramis entered into Athos’ sickroom, immediately their senses were overwhelmed by the grimness of the infection. A putrid odor of decaying flesh and infection hung in the air. The sight of Athos covered in a sheen of sweat, his skin red as though sunburned and mottled with blue-grey blotches, stole their breath away. 

“My God,” Captain Tréville exclaimed at the sight. He had heard his men were wounded but he was not informed of the severity of their wounds. After seeing his other three Musketeers doing fairly well, he was not expecting Athos to be in such grave condition.

“What is wrong with him, how is he?” the captain asked, looking to Aramis for answers.

“If I may,” the doctor interrupted. “I am Gèrard Berteau, physician at Chamarande. I have been treating your Musketeer, along with my assistant, M. Molyneux, and nurse Cécile,” he pointed toward each in introduction. 

“I’m afraid that,” M. Berteau continued, “Athos has a condition called sepsis, or bacterial poisoning of the blood due to infection. Currently, we are treating him with maggots to clean away the decaying flesh. However, that is all the maggots can do, they cannot remove the infection once it enters the bloodstream. Once the infection has been circulated throughout his system there is little to nothing more I can do for him.”

 

The silence in the room was thick and heavy with emotion, everyone too stunned to speak. Even Aramis and Porthos, who had sat with Athos every waking moment until Captain Tréville arrived, were completely shocked at the grim news. 

“My God,” Aramis gasped. The Musketeer medic looked as though he had seen a ghost, his face now drained of all color. From his readings in medical journals Aramis was well aware of the severity of sepsis. If the patient’s infection couldn't be treated it would lead to septic shock, causing organ failure, heart failure and, ultimately, death.

Aramis also knew very well with limited medical resources and treatments available, the death rate from septic shock was extremely high. “Damn! Damn. . . damn, damn, damn!. . . Damn!” Aramis cursed relentlessly.

“God,” Captain Tréville hung his head for a moment, his eyes closed. “I don’t know what to say, gentlemen,” he said softly, “but the king is expecting you to join him back to Paris tomorrow. M. Berteau is obviously a competent physician, as is his assistant, M. Molyneux. Athos and d’Artagnan are in very capable hands.”

“Bloody hell!” Porthos growled. “We cannot leave when Athos is so sick, Captain.”

“I cannot disobey the direct orders of the king,” retorted the captain. “Not when there are two very capable physicians, and a nurse, here to take care of both Athos and d’Artagnan. No, we leave for Paris in the morning.”

“Dammit!” Porthos left the room, smacking the door hard as he passed by, causing Cécile to jump with a yelp. “Dammit!” he yelled in the hallway as he slammed his door shut. The noise reverberated down the hall.

Aramis stared at Tréville, shaking his head. “So, even with the grim news of Athos’s condition, you still think it’s fine for us to leave him behind?” Aramis was incredulous, utterly disbelieving the captain’s apparent lack of concern for Athos.

“I never thought I would _ever_ regret being a Musketeer... but I am now,” Aramis said, his eyes cold and hard. He shook his head in disgust and left the room, slamming his own door behind him.

*****

 

**Next Morning:**

Aramis and Porthos begrudgingly packed up their belongings then met in the hall, each dressed in uniform with their weapons on their belts.  
Neither man spoke as they each were lost in thought, dreading having to part from their friends. 

“Hey,” Porthos greeted d’Artagnan, trying to be cheerful. “It’s time for us to go. Remember what I said last night?” Porthos referred to the late-night talk the three friends had about the king’s orders. “I’ve got leave accrued so I’ll put in my request as soon as I get back to the garrison. I’ll be back before ya know it, lad.”

“Me too,” Aramis chimed in. “You just concentrate on getting better, do you hear me? We’ll be back soon,” he said as he hugged d’Artagnan. “Goodbye, little brother.” Aramis kissed the young Gascon on his head then walked out.

Porthos couldn’t speak but just nodded his head, hoping to keep his emotions in check. He placed his large hand on d’Artagnan’s head, mindlessly moving a few stray strands of hair, quiet tears welling in his eyes. He leaned over to place a kiss on top of the Gascon's head, then quickly left the room.

 

D’Artagnan was once again alone, feeling abandoned in a strange place. He couldn’t stop the hot tears from flowing down his cheeks.

 

Porthos went directly to Athos’ room, knowing his friend would be there to say goodbye. He stopped in the doorway as he saw Aramis leaning over Athos, whispering quietly into his ear. 

Aramis rested his head to Athos’ forehead, his hand gently running over the unconscious man’s hair. A teardrop fell from the medic’s eyes onto Athos’ cheek, which he rubbed away with his thumb.

“I have to go, brother,” Aramis whispered. "God, I don’t want to, but... the king’s orders. I’ll be back as soon as I can. You hang in there and fight this infection, do you hear me?” Aramis questioned, not expecting a reply.

“You fight, dammit! I _expect_ to see you awake and doing better when I get back. . . and that’s an order. Please, get better, Athos, my brother. I love you,” Aramis kissed Athos tenderly on the forehead. Then, with one last touch to the flushed cheek, he rushed from the room, brushing past Porthos in the doorway.

 

Porthos stood and stared at Athos, before finally walking to his bedside. “It all started with a headache. . . and it’s been downhill ever since.” The large Musketeer ran his fingers across Athos’ cheeks and cursed. "Damn, much too damn hot.”

Porthos looked upward, “why did this have to happen? Why Athos, after everything he’s done to help save everyone else. When is it his turn to get helped?” He turned his attention back to Athos. "It’s time to take care of yourself, Athos. It’s time to fight; you fight to get better. You must fight to survive this; you fight to live! You fight to rejoin your brothers as a Musketeer. . . where you belong.”

“I love you, brother.” Porthos kissed Athos on the forehead then left in a rush out the door. "Damn, damn,” he muttered over and again.

*****

 

The Musketeers mounted their horses and turned to leave, taking one last sorrowful look over their shoulders. They hadn’t gotten far, however, when a pain-filled scream tore through the air from an open window at the château.

d’Artagnan’s room.

  

The Musketeers looked at each other in horror. Aramis and Porthos turned their horses back to rush toward the sound of the screams. Entering the house, they saw the two doctors and Cécile rushing toward the young Gascon’s room.

Running into the room the Musketeers found d’Artagnan on the floor, lying still and limp in the arms of M. Molyneux. The only movement was the boy’s head, moving side-to-side as he screamed out in fear. 

M. Berteau took d’Artagnan’s hand. "Son, can you squeeze my hand?” he asked.

Nothing.

“Try to move your feet, your fingers, anything for me, son,” the doctor prompted.

Nothing.

“Oh God, no!” Porthos whispered to himself.

Aramis knelt beside d’Artagnan. "We’ve got to get that fragment out now!” he said to M. Berteau. “It’s putting pressure on his spine, if we don’t do something _right now,_ he could be paralyzed for the rest of his life."

Aramis looked up to find Tréville standing in the doorway, “I’m staying to assist doctor Berteau with this surgery,” he said to the captain. “You can fire me from the Musketeers right now if you want, but I’ve got a surgery to get ready for,” he said in all seriousness.

Porthos lifted d’Artagnan and followed the physicians into the hallway. He paused briefly next to Tréville, “fire me too, cap’n. No way in hell I’m goin’ anywhere.” 

Tréville nodded, “I’ll tell the king what has happened here, and that you’re too sick to travel. Take care of your brothers, Porthos,” the captain sighed. With a soft pat to the large Musketeer’s shoulder, Captain Tréville left to rendezvous with the king and his escort.

*****

 

Porthos rushed d’Artagnan into the room and gently laid him on the wooden table. 

“What can I do to help?” Porthos asked Berteau.

“You can help Cécile gather up the supplies--we need towels, gauze, my surgical tools, and plenty of hot water. Bring as much hot water as possible,” the doctor instructed.

“You got it,” Porthos ran to follow Cécile downstairs to gather the supplies.

M. Molyneux brought a small jar with a cup of wine. “I have dwale potion we can give d’Artagnan to put him to sleep” he said. The assistant physician began mixing the concoction together then handed the cup to Aramis. "Have him drink this.”

M. Berteau held d’Artagnan’s head up while Aramis held the cup to the Gascon's lips. "Drink, mon ami, it will help you sleep right through this. The next time you wake up, you’ll be back in your room feeling better.”

The wounded man drank a few good sips before he started to cough and gag from the bad taste; he turned his head away, refusing any further sips.

M. Molyneux checked the amount of potion ingested and nodded. "Alright, that should be enough. Let’s give him a few minutes to fall asleep.”

As the patient fell asleep, Porthos and Cécile returned with the water and supplies.

“Okay,” said Berteau. "Let’s get him turned to his stomach—carefully—and get started.”

M. Berteau took the scalpel to cut into the same incision he had cut before, easily cutting through the fairly new stitches. “We'll cut through his current stitches; this way we minimize the scarring,” the doctor smiled.

Aramis took the probing tool to begin the search for the ball fragment. Molyneux held an oil lamp just above the surgeons, giving them the necessary light to see into the body of d’Artagnan.

Berteau took a second probing tool to work alongside of Aramis, but following the familiar path he took before in the previous surgery. “There!” Berteau exclaimed, “there’s the fragment."

The older doctor looked to Aramis and nodded. "Your young hands are steadier, your eyes sharper than mine; I want you to extract the fragment.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Doctor, he’s your patient, M. Berteau.”

“Nonsense,” said Berteau. “He was your patient many times over before he ever came to see me,” he quipped. “Extractor, Cécile!”

Aramis took the extractor. With his eyes zeroed in on the ball fragment, he took a deep breath and started to pray. “God, please, steady my hands; help me get this fragment out.” _d’Artagnan’s future ability to walk, and to be a Musketeer is literally in my hands!_ "God help me!"

The Musketeer medic grabbed hold of the small metal piece and pulled it out, all the while holding his breath. He dropped the fragment into the bowl Cécile held up, and let out the breath he was holding. "Thank God.”

“Very good, M. Aramis,” said Berteau. "Very good, indeed! I do believe you missed your _true_ calling, son. Now, let us close him up so he can begin healing, shall we?”

*****

 

**Hours Later:**

D’Artagnan dreamt he was on horseback, riding to an unknown destination. He was caught in a thick fog, swallowing everything around him; even the ground disappeared into the fog. He dismounted his horse, his feet disappearing in the fog. He was alone. He couldn't find his friends. . .

“D’Artagnan. . . D’Artagnan. . .”

“D’Artagnan, come on, open up your eyes for me. You’ve been sleeping long enough, little brother,” a voice called through the fog.

It's Aramis!

“A‘missss. . .” d’Artagnan slurred. 

“Yeah, it’s me; I’m here now.” Aramis took the Gascon's hand in his. "Can you squeeze my hand, d’Artagnan? Come on, give me a sign, mon ami.”

D’Artagnan opened his eyes. He turned to see Aramis, with Porthos standing just behind him.

The patient closed his eyes again, concentrating. . .

“No, don’t go to sleep,” Aramis called, lightly smacking his cheek. “Squeeze my hand, then you can go to sleep.”

Gradually, Aramis felt a light squeeze to his left hand. However, all eyes were drawn to the right hand lifting up at the wrist, fingers fanning out, before dropping to the blanket. Small movements with his feet underneath the blanket cause Porthos and Aramis to gasp with joy.

Weak from exertion, d’Artagnan’s head lolled to the side as he fell asleep.

Porthos grabbed Aramis, pulling him into a tight bear hug, patting him on the back in jubilation. “Ha ha,” the large musketeer laughed happily. Taking Aramis by his shoulders he yelled, “you did it, ‘Mis! He can move, he’s gonna be okay!”

“No, we did it,” Aramis looked at the three healers who each took part in helping d’Artagnan get through this difficult surgery. “They deserve the credit too.”

“Well, I’d say this is the best team in French medicine, wouldn’t each of you?” Berteau looked to everyone, smiling. “Come, let’s let these Musketeers have some privacy.”

Turning back, he said to Aramis, “I do indeed believe you missed your true calling, young man.” Berteau closed the door, leaving the friends to visit and celebrate alone.

 

As the three brothers celebrated second chances, another brother slipped toward an impending end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwale was a potion--an early anesthetic--used to dull the pain of surgery. It consisted of lettuce juice, gall from a castrated boar, briony, henbane, hemlock juice, vinegar.....and OPIUM! They would normally mix this concoction with wine to make it go down easier. BUT, sometimes the mixture was too strong and would cause the patient to stop breathing! Maybe it was the mixing of opium and alcohol!
> 
> The term "sepsis" is first referenced in medical concept by Matthaeus Silvaticus circa 1280-1342, reprinted in 1500.  
> Septic shock has a high death rate, even to this day--with an estimated 500,000 deaths per year in U.S..  
> Symptoms of septic shock are:  
> High fever  
> Chills  
> Rapid heart rate  
> Shortness of breath/difficulty breathing
> 
> Possible effects:  
> Respiratory failure  
> any Organ failure  
> Heart failure  
> Gangrene leading to amputation


	10. Adieu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *************************************WARNING*****************************************  
> Tissue Alert!  
> The end of _The Inseparables_

The two Musketeers crept stealthily from d’Artagnan’s sick room, closing the door quietly behind them. They walked down the hall with arms intertwined around each other’s shoulders, still smiling from the success of their young friend’s surgery.

Cécile rushed out of Athos’ room. "He’s awake!” she cried with excitement. 

Aramis and Porthos rushed into the room to be at their brother’s side. They sat down in the two chairs positioned beside the bed where they had been keeping vigil nearly every waking moment since they got permission to stay.

The emergency with d’Artagnan had been the only distraction pulling them away from Athos’ side since his health declined. Now, with the young Gascon on the mend, Porthos and Aramis could redirect their attention back to the brother whose life was slipping away, almost in front of their eyes. 

Aramis and Porthos could barely contain their excitement as they saw their sick brother finally awake. Athos’ green eyes appeared glossed over, but they were open and focused on his friends.

“Hey, brother Athos,” said Aramis softly. “About time you woke up from your nap; you had us worried sick. . .” Aramis caught himself.

 _Not a good word to use right now, probably should rephrase._ “You had us worried, mon ami.” Aramis placed his hand to the fevered forehead, stroking softly with his thumb.

Athos’ mouth curled with an almost imperceptible smile that faded in seconds. Even the act of smiling left him exhausted, his eyelids flutter closed. He felt tired, so tired. . . he just wanted to sleep.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Porthos growled with feigned brazenness. “You’ve slept long enough, brother. We’re here; now you stay awake and talk to us,” he teased lightly.

Despite the teasing rebuke from his friends, Athos’ heavy eyelids were drooping. He could barely muster the strength to keep his tired eyes from closing. 

Through glazed eyes he clearly saw the worry etched on the faces of his friends. 

He fought to stay awake. 

 

**Athos’s POV:**

I want to tell my brothers everything’s going to be alright; soon I’ll be well and we’ll ride back to the garrison together. Everything will return back to normal once again.

The two brothers in front of me are my right and left hand. They have been there for me--and with me--through thick and thin. They have been with me through good and bad; through my mood swings and carefree days. 

Porthos and Aramis, and d’Artagnan too, were there to pull me from the wretchedness of my despair, when my past haunted me; when all I wanted to do was die. 

My brothers accepted me for who I am, despite the demons I carried with me. Porthos and Aramis accepted me as a friend—as a brother—allowing me a special place in their hearts. . . without ever judging me for my past.

My brothers were my only strength when I was too drunk to give a damn. 

I believe they are the _only_ reason I didn't drink myself to an early grave.

Many times they were my only support when drunkenness brought me to my knees. I recall the frequent nights they stayed with me, nursing me back to health until I was sober.

I fondly remember that last morning in my room when I retched into a bowl Porthos provided at the last second. Then Porthos was pulling me to my feet, helping me to get dressed. Though he feigned anger at having to miss his breakfast, I knew he wasn’t _really_ angry with me. 

My friends would lay beside me, comforting me, when I was drowning in my self-induced stupors of sorrow. I can still feel the tender arms of Aramis or Porthos holding me close to their chests on those long, lonely nights. 

My friends--these Musketeers--are closer to me as brothers than my own brother, Thomas. Captain Tréville dubbed us _The Inseparables;_ Porthos and Aramis are my brothers in every manner but blood. 

I am trying—for their sake—to be strong but it’s getting harder to hang on. I never cared about my reputation of being the best swordsman in France but honor—both as a man and as a Musketeer—never allowed room for defeat. I hate to lose. 

But this is a fight I cannot win.

My title as comte meant nothing to me, but my title as Musketeer means everything. I willingly gave up everything; my nobility, my money, my home, my inheritance to be a Musketeer and stand at the side of my brothers Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan.

I would gladly give up my life to save any one of them. . . or all of them.

There is nothing I would change about my decision to stay behind in the forest to fight; giving my brothers time to get away—giving them the means to survive. 

I knew Aramis and d’Artagnan would not make it much longer. I did what I had to do to save their lives.

And I’d do it again.

There simply was no other option. I would never be able to live with myself knowing that I had let them die. Their lives are worth more than my own.

I can only hope that someday they will learn to accept my decision. . . or at least understand why. 

I want them to live life to the fullest. 

I hope Aramis will one day find his true love and settle down. He says he loves adventure and could never settle in one place; but I think he's running from the hurt of lost love. One woman taken from him; one he could never have. One child lost; one son he can never claim. He deserves happiness. I only hope that one day he will find it.

Porthos rose up from the slums of the street to become a fine Musketeer. I hope that his days of adventure do not come to an end on account of me not being there by his side. He has so much more living to do--so much more daring enterprise to discover. One day his adventures will lead him to the right woman; she'll have to be a kindred spirit if she hopes to keep up with him.

I hope d'Artagnan one day marries Constance and they have a family of their own. From the moment I met d'Artagnan, his fire and vigor reminded me of my younger self, before I became hollow inside; before betrayal and murder made me what I am--a drunk. I know with his skill and experience, d'Artagnan will one day be the greatest Musketeer to ever serve under the king of France.

I hope they will not be angry at me for leaving them behind. But in choosing between their lives or mine. . . I chose theirs.

 

*************

“D’rrtt. . .” Athos wheezed in a whisper.

Aramis smiled, despite himself. This is just like Athos, always thinking of others before himself. “He’s going to be just fine. We got the ball from his back—he’ll be on his feet again in no time.”

Athos nodded, blinking back tears. His tired eyes glanced up at Aramis’ bandaged head, questioningly. 

“What, this?” Aramis pointed to his head. "Yes, my head is fine. Don’t worry, God gave me a really hard head. You’ve said as much yourself. . . many times,” he said in jest.

Athos turned his eyes to Porthos. His eyes took in the scratches, the bandage on his neck. _Are you okay?_

The other Musketeers in the regiment thought it very strange that _The Inseparables_ could communicate their thoughts and questions silently with their eyes.

It was no different in this room.

“I’m fine too,” said Porthos, my neck was just grazed, remember?” He reminded Athos he knew of the ‘minor’ injury after it happened on the road just before they entered the forest.

Unlike the scratches, it would be a long time before he could speak about the horrors--the dead bodies lying in the dark of the forest. He had to get away—far away—from the ghosts of the forest. 

“Aramis and d’Artagnan are both going to be fine because of you. They’re alive because of what _you_ did for all of us back there in the forest,” Porthos paused.

“But _none_ of that means a damn thing, Athos, if you don’t fight for yourself—for your _own_ life! Your life matters, brother. You matter to all of us.” Porthos angrily wiped at a tear threatening to spill in the corner of his eye.

“Sss. . .” Athos tried to speak but was interrupted by a fit of coughing that left him gasping. He inhaled wheezy gulps of air, desperate to fill his lungs with life-giving oxygen. His lungs burned; he just couldn’t get enough air.

Aramis turned to M. Berteau. "Isn’t there a way we can prop him on his side--keeping his wound uncovered--but elevate his head so he can _breathe?_ He can’t breathe lying flat on his stomach like this!”

Porthos pulled Athos, turning him up slightly and holding his head, until he could catch his breath. “I’ve got you, brother. Just breathe, in and out. Deep breaths for me,” he coached. “Just keep breathing.”

Athos’ breathing was labored and raspy, but at least he wasn’t gasping for air anymore. The fight to breathe left him weak, sapping more life out of him. No longer able to keep his drooping eyes open, he let them slide shut. 

“Don’t you _dare_ go to sleep on us,” the medic ordered. “You stay with us—you stay awake!” Aramis took Athos’ hand, “I’m not letting go,” he squeezed hard. “Don’t you let go either!”

M. Molyneux brought over several pillows. Aramis and Porthos gently rolled Athos onto his right side, while the doctor pushed the pillows in behind him, keeping him upright. Cécile used several pillows to elevate his head and upper body, taking the pressure off his lungs. 

“There, are you comfortable enough, mon cher?” Aramis asked.

Athos gave a tiny nod, “th’ks.”

“No need to thank me, mon cher. Just making sure you’re comfortable—making sure you keep breathing. You can be a little stubborn sometimes, ya know,” Aramis bantered. “You never liked admitting to anyone that you were hurting or suffering in any way. You never liked to ask anyone for help.”

Athos made a throaty grunting noise in protest.

"You're only human," Aramis paused, “it’s okay to ask for help sometimes. That’s what we’re here for, Athos. That’s what friends do for each other.”

“No one will think any less of you if you need a shoulder to lean on,” Aramis said.

“Hell,” Porthos chimed in, “no one will ever think of you any higher than the two of us, and d’Artagnan, already do. You’ve got _nothing_ to prove to any of us—except that you’re strong enough to beat this.”

Athos shivered as a chill trembled through his body. “C-c-co’d” his teeth chattered.

Aramis pulled the blanket up to his neck, gently tucking it around him, while trying to keep the wounded shoulder uncovered.  
“Is that better?” Aramis asked, patting Athos’s shoulder softly.

Athos nodded.

 

Over the next few hours Aramis and Porthos tried to keep Athos talking, bringing up memories of old missions. They reminisced over silly bantering in the chow hall, sparring in the courtyard. 

Porthos admitted to cheating in several games of lansequenet, but that he had put the money he won to _very good use._

A tear spilled from Athos’ eye, dripping onto the pillow.

“Hey, I can pay back the money,” Porthos joked, his heart breaking.

Athos smiled. Immediately, the smile was wiped away in a fit of coughing. 

 

Aramis and Porthos stared at each other with widened eyes as they each listened to a new rattling sound coming from deep inside Athos’ chest, in addition to his wheezing, as he breathed.

“Don’t do this, Athos,” Aramis whispered in his ear. “Please, don’t leave us, brother. What will we do without you?”

“Athos, please,” Aramis begged in his friend’s ear. "Please don’t leave me alone.” 

A tear slipped from Athos’ left eye, rolling across the bridge of his nose to drip down onto the pillow.

“I never had a brother, not ‘til you and ‘Mis and d’Artagnan. Now I have three; we’re a family, Athos. We can’t lose you," Porthos pleaded. "Please, don’t do this. . . don’t leave us.”

“I l-love y-youuu. . .” Athos said, taking one last breath.

Athos was gone. 

With one last breath, his life faded into only a memory. 

His glassy green eyes were still open but were now. . . empty. 

Lifeless.

Eyes, once so full of vitality; eyes that shined with pride when watching his protégé, d’Artagnan, become a Musketeer. Green eyes that were once windows to his stormy soul, were now hollow and vacant.

The unseeing eyes stared ahead at nothing. Unshed tears, welled in lifeless eyes, now spilled out and rolled down the cheeks to catch in the soft beard.

 

Time has stopped. 

The air hung thick with shock; no one dared to even breathe.

Then. . . 

Grief slammed into the Musketeers like a tornado ripping away their very soul. Anguished screams of sudden sorrow filled the air; like angry waves, they rolled and echoed down the hall.

 **”No!”** Aramis screamed out, falling limply over his friend. He pulled Athos’ head and shoulders tightly into his arms and let out a howl of wrenching pain. “No, Athos. No. . . no. . . no. . . no!” his shoulders trembled with uncontrollable sobs.

Porthos threw an arm over Aramis’ shoulder and leaned his head into Athos’ chest. He let his anguish, rage, and heartache flow freely from him in torrents of agonized sobs. “Why, Athos? Why? Why? Why?” the large Musketeer screamed over and over.

“God, no!” cried Aramis. “Please, not Athos. . . not Athos.”

“Come, let’s give them some privacy,” M. Berteau said quietly to his colleagues. They left the brothers to grieve alone, closing the door behind them. 

 

D’Artagnan was startled awake by the sound of screaming coming from down the hallway. He listened, in horror. “Oh God, that sounds like Aramis and Porthos. Oh God, no. . .” 

Only one reason why they would scream out like that. . .

D’Artagnan threw back the covers on his bed, then swung his legs over the edge. He hesitated, knowing he didn't have the strength to stand—and if he tried--he would end up on the floor. 

He had to get to that room, but he knew he couldn't do it alone.

D’Artagnan yelled out, joining the cacophony of screams and wails resounding through the château. **”Help!”** Doctor Berteau, Cécile. . . Molyneux? Help!” He cried out desperately.

Finally, he heard the sound of running feet approaching. “D’Artagnan, are you alright?” asked doctor Berteau with concern.

“No, I’m not alright, dammit! What the hell is going on, what’s happened?” d’Artagnan yelled in a panic.

“Now, d’Artagnan, listen to me. . .”

“No, I will not listen! You tell me what the hell is going on down there!”

M. Berteau sighed, “I’m so sorry, d’Artagnan,” he shook his head sorrowfully.

 

D’Artagnan’s heart hitched in his chest. 

“No!” he shook his head defiantly. “Oh, God, no!” he screamed, as though cold hands had just reached inside his chest to yank out his beating heart.

D’Artagnan felt like he had been hit by a charging bull. His ears buzzed, his vision went fuzzy. Had it not been for M. Berteau catching him, he would have fallen to the hard floor below. 

“No, this can’t be,” d’Artagnan writhed in the arms holding him. “This can’t be! Not Athos, he can’t die! God, tell me it’s not true!”

“I’m sorry, son, but he was just too sick.”

“I have to get down there. I have to be with Porthos and Aramis, doctor. Please, help me up,” d’Artagnan cried, his face set hard as stone.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea in your condition,” said the doctor.

“Goddammit! D’Artagnan lost his temper suddenly. “Either someone carries me or I’ll crawl down there myself!”

M. Molyneux stepped forward, “I’ll take you down there.” Gathering d’Artagnan in his arms, the assistant carried the young Musketeer to join with his grieving friends. He set him down carefully in a large chair then slid it to the bedside beside his friends. “If you need anything, I’ll be outside the door.”

D’Artagnan was stunned. Never had he seen his friends cry—not like this. Not ever.

The grief was palpable. Intense.

Only the death of his father could compare. Or so he thought. . .

He sat on the edge of the chair watching his two brothers sobbing into Athos’ limp body, each muttering words he couldn't understand.

He had come to the garrison looking for Athos—looking for revenge. He wanted to kill the man responsible for killing his father. The rage he felt toward a man he had never met was consuming, biting and gnawing away at his heart.

When he learned it was all a lie—that Athos was not the man he was led to believe--he slowly allowed his heart to open up to the man. 

He learned to admire the Musketeer. The more d’Artagnan watched Athos, the more he knew wanted to be just like him.

Athos was the man—the Musketeer—he wanted as his mentor. D’Artagnan had dreamed of becoming a Musketeer all his life; and he could think of no one else he’d rather have train him, teach him, lead him. 

Athos was the ideal leader; calm, collected, intelligent, brilliant. His skill with a sword was unrivaled—his ability as a soldier unmatched.

D’Artagnan grew to love Athos. He loved him like a brother. 

 

He leaned as far as he could reach and placed his hands on the backs of his friends. With all the strength he could muster on shaking legs, d’Artagnan pulled himself to a standing position. . . only to fall into his two friends who were there to catch him.

Porthos and Aramis stepped aside, allowing more room for their young friend to stand between them. They each placed a supportive arm around d’Artagnan’s waist holding him up, so he could grieve for Athos right along with them.

The three brothers clung to their fallen brother—and to each other—sobbing until their tears ran dry.

 

**Next Day:**

A messenger on horseback rushed into the courtyard of the garrison calling out for Captain Tréville.

The captain stood on the balcony, upon hearing his name. "Up here," he called.

“Sir, I have an urgent message for you from M. Hurault in Chamarande.”

At the name, Tréville’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh no,” he gasped. He ran down the stairs to tear the letter from the hands of the messenger, ripping it open.

_Dear Captain Tréville:_

_It is with my deepest sympathies and regret that I inform you of the death your Musketeer, Athos._

_I am certain you would like to return to the château to collect his body and escort him back to Paris where he belongs. Anything you need for funeral arrangements et. al. will be at your disposal._

_Regards,_

_M. Hurault_

Captain Tréville let go of the letter. A strong gust of wind caught the pape and carried it high on the breeze. It floated, circling around, swirling and dancing in the air until it finally came to a rest on the bench favorited by Athos.

 

**Paris Periodical, Days Later:**

Church bells in Paris tolled in a slow and sorrowful death knell announcing the funeral of a King’s Musketeer.

King Louis provided an ornate wagon adorned in black bunting to carry the body of Athos to _Notre Dame Cathedral,_ where his funeral was held. 

Few outside of high-ranking nobility are given such an honor in death, but Athos was no ordinary soldier or Musketeer; he was nobility by birth but chose to relinquish inheritance to become a Musketeer.

Athos is being hailed by King Louis XIII as a hero for selflessly sacrificing himself to permit his three fellow Musketeers a chance to escape certain death—though at the cost of his own life.

Behind the carriage rode Athos’ two brothers, and closest friends, the surviving members of _The Inseparables,_ Porthos and Aramis. Behind them followed the commander of the Musketeer Guard, Captain Tréville.

The entire Musketeer Regiment, dressed in their finest uniforms, marched behind the carriage and the three on horseback, for the funeral procession to the cathedral.

A fourth Musketeer, d’Artagnan, one of the wounded Musketeers for whom Athos made his sacrifice, rode in a special carriage provided by M. Hurault of the _Château de Chamarande._

The expensive carriage allowed d’Artagnan to ride on a stretcher--cushioned by pillows—to make his travels more suitable in regards to his injuries.

For such sacrifice of loyalty, dedication to duty, and in giving honor to his regiment and to the King of France, King Louis XIII awarded Athos, Lieutenant of the King’s Musketeers, the prestigious Maltese Cross. 

 

Athos was buried next to his brother, Thomas, in the domains of La Fère.

 

The writing on his tombstone is simple, yet eloquent:

Oliver d’Athos de la Fère

“Athos”

Lieutenant, King’s Musketeer

Man of Honor

Brother

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************  
I deeply apologize for writing such a depressing story. However, if I wanted to keep the story realistic to nature, I knew there was no other option than to let Athos go—the way he would have in real life.

I had planned to write a scene at the funeral BUT decided on doing a summary, as though reading it in a newspaper, rather than drawing out unnecessary angst. I will leave to your own imaginations how you think Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan would react at Athos’s funeral. Such detail of grief is better left to personal thoughts.

I did not want to destroy my story by going into angst overload—there’s enough sorrow as it is.

Again, my apologies for the depressing story!

I could NOT leave this story with such a sad ending, however, and do plan to update with an alternate ending. COMING SOON!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so, SO sorry for writing this unbelievably sad chapter. I know that many of you begged that I not kill Athos...but when I wrote that he had sepsis I knew I had no other choice--IF I was to keep with the realistic nature of the story. 
> 
> Do NOT feel bad if you cried like a baby reading this.....I cried like a baby writing it!! Several times I had to stop writing to wipe away the tears and allow myself to cry. It's funny how attached we become to these fictional characters and, even in our world of make believe, when a favored character dies....the grief is still VERY real!
> 
> However, after much thought and inner debate, I could NOT leave this story with such a terrible and sad ending--and since this is a fictional story--I am going to release an alternate ending, called _The Miracle_ (one can use their imagination to guess how this chapter might end instead).
> 
> The alternate ending will come AFTER I do an epilogue to this chapter; kind-of my take on how the boys would handle the death of their dear friend, Athos. 
> 
> I find it interesting that in the case of the REAL Musketeers, who Alexandre Dumas patterned his fictional characters after, Armand de Sillègue d'Athos d'Autevielle, did indeed die first....he was killed in a duel at the young age of 28, (approx).
> 
> Again, my apologies!


	11. Epilogue: Memories

**Two Weeks Later:**

"I don’t know how I’m going to walk in that place again,” said Aramis, looking down at his hands.

Aramis closed his eyes, feeling the gentle rhythm of his horse, Belle, beneath him, almost lulling him to sleep.

Except that he was afraid to go to sleep; when he slept he saw Athos’ face. In sleep, Aramis was forced to relive the nightmare of losing Athos every time he dreamt.

The unseeing, empty eyes of Athos haunted his dreams.

At the château, Aramis asked Athos not to close his eyes. How many times did he tell him, _“don’t you dare close your eyes, Athos! Keep them open, Athos. Look at me, Athos. Don’t go to sleep, Athos!”_

If only he could close the eyes in his dreams.

Aramis would give anything if the mission to Orléans, and all that happened because of it, was just a really bad, fever-induced nightmare. He wished that at any moment he would wake up to find Athos looking down at him and smiling. 

Aramis wondered if he would ever be able to close his eyes again without being haunted by the lifeless eyes of Athos.

_I wish I could see his entire face, not just his eyes. . ._

“If only I could see his face one more time,” Aramis whispered aloud.

“God, if I could just hear his slow drawl again. If I could just hear Athos’ voice once again telling me everything was going to be alright. . .”

“I have to put on my uniform, walk into that garrison--knowing he’s not there—and he’ll never be there again, how do I do it. . .?”

“I don’t want to go back. . .”

“Aramis, stop it already!” scolded d’Artagnan. “We talked about this at the farm. How long are you going to carry on a conversation with yourself? I thought we got all of this out of your system back there?”

“He’s right, ‘Mis, Porthos agreed. “You’re not helping the situation any; in fact, I think you’re making it worse. We just got to take it one step at a time. Take it one day at a time, brother."

*****

**Flashback: Farm in Gascony:**

The fireplace was warm, sounds of crackling and popping was soothing background noise; the light from the fire caused shadows to dance around the dark walls of the cabin.

There was a mix of empty and yet unopened bottles of wine scattered about the room on tables and the floor beside the fireplace where Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan were sitting.

While they drank wine-- when not lost in their own thoughts-- they reminisced, drowning their sorrows of Athos. . . one sip at a time.

 

Porthos took a fork from his empty plate and held it up, staring at it. He chuckled and shook his head. "This looks just like the fork I used as my dueling weapon after I won at lansequenet. Of course, I may have cheated. . . a lit’le.”

“Athos said it wasn’t a fair fight if I was unarmed and that stupid fork was there so I grabbed it,” Porthos laughed.

“That was when the guy took your sword, right?” d’Artagnan asked. “I remember you mentioned that one time before,” he smiled.

“Yeah, and I would’ve beat the guy too but Athos knocked him out—he was growing impatient and said we were late meetin’ with Aramis,” Porthos recalled.

“Before we left, I went to the table to collect my winnings and Athos saw the cards I had hidden away, tucked into my sleeve,” Porthos said slyly.

“What did he do?” d’Artagnan asked eagerly.

“You know how Athos used to cock his head to one side and give us _‘that look’?”_ Porthos asked, while demonstrating the motions.

“Yes, Athos did that all the time,” d’Artagnan and Aramis said in unison.

“Athos cocked his head slightly, giving me that _look_ and said, ‘Porthos'. That’s all he said--just my name--but it was the _way_ he said it. . . and the whole time, he was tryin' not to smile.” Porthos paused, remembering.

“Then Athos asked me where Aramis was,” Porthos continued. “I didn’t want to answer that but when I didn’t answer, he said, ‘tell me he’s not that stupid'.”

Aramis laughed, “oh, yeah, that was the time I had to jump out the girl’s bedroom window just before Armand arrived. Mon Dieu, that was a long drop down-- two or three floors up—and it wasn’t the softest landing I’ve ever had,” he complained.

 

“There was nothin’ soft about that time at his old house in La Fère when he punched me!” Porthos growled.

“Well, I’m sorry about that, brother,” Aramis shrugged. “But it’s like Athos said, ‘it’s the best way when dealing with you, we’ve learned from experience',” he reminded the brooding man. 

“I think Athos enjoyed punchin' me just a little too much! He knew I was incapacitated and couldn’t fight back. . . he took advantage of the situation.”

“We were about to perform surgery on you, you fool,” Aramis joked. “Would you rather endure the pain of me cutting into you?”

“He could’ve given me some of that wine he had hidden away upstairs,” Porthos grumbled.

“We tried wine before,” Aramis snorted. “It didn’t work, remember? That’s why knocking you out was the best option when prepping you for surgery-- and Athos was better at punching you than I was.”

“Yeah, he had style, he could throw a good punch,” Porthos nodded. “Not too many times a Musketeer can punch another out and get away wit’ it,” he gave a throaty growl.

 

“Such as when I punched the captain—not once, but twice--when he didn’t deny being involved in the Savoy massacre,” Aramis recalled, shaking his head with disgust.

“Don’t feel bad, ‘Mis,” Porthos sympathized. “I still get uptight when I think of Marsac; the Duke of Savoy. . . all of it, the whole damn situation.”

“You weren’t there,” Porthos said to his friends, “when the duke challenged Athos to a duel—the rules stated that first blood drawn wins.” Porthos shook his head. 

“I never wanted Athos to win a challenge so much as I did that day,” Porthos growled. “Athos finally had the duke pinned on his back; he sliced that blade across the man’s chest, glaring at him like he wanted to kill ‘im.”

“I wanted to kiss Athos,” Porthos said. “He sliced his chest open, but I would have sliced off his head—and I told Athos that. The duke, he was one arrogant, pompous arse. . .” his voice trailed.

 

“Athos taught me to fight with my head, not my heart,” d’Artagnan added quietly. “Remember that challenge between the Red Guard and the Musketeers?”

“How could we forget?” Aramis and Porthos chimed in together.

“When Athos would spar with me, to help prepare me for the duel, I would fall and he would kill me. Or, Athos would disarm me. . . and then he'd kill me,” d'Artagnan laughed. 

“We would go in circles,” d’Artagnan circled with his hands as he told the story. “All while we’re sparring, Athos was instructing me on how to be a better swordsman. Damn, I’m panting for breath and he wasn't even breaking a sweat! He was calmly talking away as we dueled like it was nothing to him.”

“It was nothing to him,” Aramis said.

D’Artagnan glanced at Aramis, then stared into fire. He replayed that particular lesson over and over in his mind, remembering exactly how he felt that day.

“Getting Athos’ approval of my abilities as a fighter—as a swordsman—it was all I ever wanted,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “I just wanted his approval. . .”

“When I sparred with Athos, he always defeated me easily and miserably,” d’Artagnan grunted. “I couldn’t keep up with his ability--it was embarrassing. Do you remember, Aramis, when you and I dueled?”

“How could I forget? You really proved yourself that day,” Aramis said proudly.

“After I defeated you, I looked to Athos for his opinion. . . and he gave me a nod of approval and smiled. Merde, that meant more to me than anything. Up to that day, I had never been more proud.”

“But then after defeating the Red Guard’s thug at the challenge. . .” D’Artagnan paused to collect his emotions. 

D’Artagnan stared into the fire, hanging his head as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“When Athos slipped the pauldron on my arm and gave me that pat on the shoulder, that was the proudest moment of my life,” his voice cracked. D’Artagnan wiped the tears from his wet face. "It will always be my most treasured memory.”

*****

**Present Time:**

 

“Aramis? Aramis!” D’Artagnan yelled, trying to get the older Musketeer’s attention. “Aramis!”

“What?” he said, shaking the cobwebs from his head. “I was just thinking. . .”

“Athos wouldn’t want you to be depressed, moping around like this,” d’Artagnan began before he was cut off.

“Don’t presume to tell me what Athos wouldn’t want,” Aramis snapped angrily. "You have no right to speak for him!”

Aramis kicked his horse into a gallop, leaving his stunned friends behind.

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged worried glances and galloped after their friend.

After coming within eye distance, at least, Porthos drew up on the reins to slow down his horse.

“What are you doing?” d’Artagnan asked with surprise, slowing his horse as well. 

“I don’t want to get too close; Aramis needs his space to be alone and think. I just wanted to get close enough to keep an eye on ‘im.” Porthos watched his friend, sadness shadowing his deep brown eyes.

“Aramis didn’t mean that, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said with an apologetic tone. “Grief has a way of makin' people say things they normally wouldn’t. ‘Mis is takin' this really hard,” Porthos stated the obvious.

“Oh, and I’m not?” d’Artagnan shot back. “Does he think he has the corner on grieving because he knew Athos longer or something? How do I even make sense of that?” d’Artagnan stormed ahead of Porthos several paces to be alone.

“Oh, bloody hell. . . just give ‘im some time, d’Artagnan.” Porthos called after the Gascon.

 

 _Time? How much time is necessary for a person to grieve?_ Porthos wondered.

Aramis had been so deeply consumed with grief that Porthos was beginning to worry for his dear friend. He noticed that Aramis hardly slept anymore. When he did sleep, his dreams had him calling out Athos’ name--only to wake up, screaming in terror.

Or, if he didn't wake up screaming, he woke up sobbing. . . exactly as Aramis did over Athos’ body at the château.

The claws of grief and sorrow dug deep into Aramis’ heart. Porthos and d’Artagnan worried they might not be able to pull Aramis free from the tight grip of sorrow's clutches.

 

 _Though, Aramis does have a point. How will I also go back to the garrison knowing Athos isn't there?_ thought Porthos.

“What the bloody hell happened to _The Inseparables,”_ Porthos asked, looking up to the sky.

“Guess we weren’t inseparable after all,” Porthos muttered. “Now, we’re separated from Athos permanently. Nothin’s going to change that!”

“I told ‘im over and over again to hang on. I begged him to stay wit’ us, to not leave us behind,” Porthos paused. “But he went and died anyway.”

“Damn him for leaving us. Damn him for what he’s done to Aramis!” Porthos shouted out angrily, to himself. . . to the world.

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan exclaimed with surprise. “Don’t you think Athos would have stayed if he could? Do you think he _wanted_ to leave us behind?”

“You can’t blame Athos for dying—it wasn’t a choice he got to make!” d’Artagnan continued. “You’re starting to sound like Aramis now, Porthos. You’re _both_ worrying me, honestly,”

“I don’t give a damn if I am worrying you, honestly,” Porthos shot back. “Aramis was right about one thing,” he snorted. “You didn’t know Athos as long as we did. I’m not tryin’ to diminish your relationship with Athos, but it’s not the same.”

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean, huh?” yelled d’Artagnan.

“It means that Athos wasn’t as close to you as he was to ‘Mis and me—that’s why the cap’n called _us_ inseparable.”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap, Porthos! How _dare_ you and Aramis say who meant the most to Athos! I didn’t realize there was a competition between each of us for the affection of Athos, for God’s sake,” d’Artagnan spat angrily.

“Just because I didn’t know Athos as long does _not_ mean that I am hurting any less than either of you. It does _not_ mean that you two loved him more than I did!”

“I loved Athos too, dammit,” d’Artagnan choked through his tears. “He was my brother too! You have _no_ right to belittle my grief; you don’t know how I feel!”

 

Both Porthos and d’Artagnan were startled by a loud yell in front of them, **"ENOUGH!"**

Aramis had stopped his horse to face his friends after putting up with their arguing long enough.

Knowing full well that he was the cause of this argument, Aramis felt he had to put an end to it.

“This is _not_ helping any of us,” Aramis declared frankly. “We’re tearing each other apart. Why? In God’s name, why?”

“Haven’t we been ripped apart enough already?” Aramis yelled, looking at both of his friends. “Athos wouldn’t want us hurting each other; yelling at each other. Not like this. Why are we fighting? This is not what he would want!”

“Dammit,” Aramis screamed up at the sky. “How do we make it stop hurting?”

“How are we supposed to go on without you, Athos? Please, tell me because I don’t know,” Aramis yelled at the sky. “I don’t know how to work through the pain; I don’t know how I’ll ever get past the emptiness I feel.”

“How. . . how do I stop missing you, my brother? How, how. . .? ” Aramis broke down and leaned over in his saddle with his shoulders shaking in uncontrollable sobs. 

“‘Mis!” Porthos jumped down from his horse and pulled Aramis into his arms. They sank down to the road, collapsing to their knees as they clung tightly to each other.

D’Artagnan jumped from his horse to join them, wrapping his arms around the shoulders of each of his friends. He placed his head to Aramis’ and cried tears of heartfelt sorrow.

*****

After the tears dried, Aramis shook his head sadly. "How are we going to do this?”

“I don’t know, ‘Mis. I don’t know,” Porthos sighed, placing a hand to Aramis’ knee. “But we will. . . we have to.”

“Athos would want us to go on living,” d’Artagnan said softly. “And so we must live--for him. We must to live every day honoring his memory by living life to the fullest. Isn’t that what he would really want?”

Porthos and Aramis look at each other for a moment and nodded.

“We will live to honor his memory then, but it may mean moving on to other things,” Aramis said. 

“We will get through this,” Porthos said smiling, patting his two friend’s shoulders. “Now, let’s go home.”

**Musketeer Garrison, One Week Later:**

 

“Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan, I have three new potential recruits coming today,” said Captain Tréville. “I want you to help assess them in sparring, hand-to-hand, and marksmanship.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged silent glances, each looking less than thrilled at the new assignment.

Tréville noticed the look of annoyance between the two men. “Gentlemen, I understand your reluctance to get back into the work involved at the garrison. . . but it’s been three weeks now. It’s time to move on as Musketeers; it’s time to get back to work.”

“Yes sir,” Porthos answered. 

Aramis said nothing, but stood expressionless and silent.

“The three recruits will rotate between each of you: d’Artagnan, you will train on sparring today; Porthos, you have hand-to-hand; Aramis, you have marksmanship,” ordered the captain.

“Get started, gentlemen.”

**Hours Later:**

 

“I am exhausted.” D’Artagnan flopped down on the bench next to Aramis and Porthos. “A few of us are going out for drinks tonight, you two want to come? It’ll be good for you to get out again—just for a little while, at least.” D’Artagnan asked his friends, hoping they would agree.

“No,” Aramis said curtly as he got up and walked away.

D’Artagnan and Porthos looked at each other, shaking their heads, watching as Aramis left the garrison to go home.

“I’ll stay wit’ him,” Porthos said as he quickly went to follow his friend.

**One Week Later:**

 

“Today we’re switching training on the recruits,” Tréville briefed the Musketeers. D’Artagnan, you will have hand-to-hand; Aramis, you will be sparring; and Porthos, no marksmanship this week, so you will be with Aramis in sparring.”

The captain watched Aramis with concern etched deep in his features. He has seen the Musketeer go from one of his best soldiers to a mere shell of his former self.

Aramis’ lack of enthusiasm worried the captain, certainly, but it was his physical appearance that was most concerning. Tréville noticed the Musketeer’s overall worn appearance, with the dark circles and bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. If he was not mistaken, he noticed that Aramis was also losing weight.

“Dismissed, gentlemen,” the captain called out. “Porthos, I’d like to have a word, please.”

“Yes sir,” Porthos stood waiting patiently. 

“Porthos, I’m worried about Aramis,” the captain got right to the point. “He doesn’t look good, is he sleeping well at night? Is he eating?”

“Captain,” Porthos shook his head, “I don’t know, he’s withdrawing to himself. He won’t let me stay with him; he won’t let either of us help him.”

“At the farm, Aramis was having nightmares, he’d wake up screaming. I doubt that has stopped, but he won’t let d’Artagnan or me stay with ‘im at night to help him deal with the dreams. As for eatin', I think he nibbles just enough to keep him going and that’s all,” Porthos answered honestly, but grimly.

“Keep an eye on him this week,” Tréville instructed. “Try to get him to eat more, if possible. Make sure he stays busy sparring—the more exhausted he is from a good day’s work—the better he’ll sleep at night.”

“Yes sir,” Porthos answered nodding. _That’s a good point about the sparring helping him to sleep, hadn’t thought of that._

**Later:**

“‘Mis,” Porthos called his friend away to speak privately. “That’s the third time you’ve been ‘killed’ by a recruit, we both know you’re better than that. ‘Mis, you’re not even trying,” Porthos said, exasperated.

“Dammit,” Aramis threw away his sword. “I’m not the one who is being assessed here; or am I?” his eyes narrowed. "Is that why the captain put you with me? Bloody hell. . .”

“‘Mis, it’s obvious to _everyone_ that you’re not trying," Porthos blurted. "Even the recruits know you’re better than this!”

Aramis turned to leave but Porthos caught his arm. "Talk to me, ‘Mis. I want to help,” he pleaded.

Aramis roughly yanked his arm free and walked away, leaving the garrison; and leaving Porthos and Tréville deeply troubled and disappointed.

Porthos started to go after his friend. “No, Porthos. Let him go,” called the captain.

**Later:**

“We’ve come to our final weeks of assessment. Today we will do something a little different from the usual training,” said the captain.

“While it is imperative,” Tréville continued, that you have excellent fighting skills as a Musketeer; it is a highly valuable skill to have basic medical training and know-how. We have a very dangerous—sometimes deadly—job which requires each of you to know how to take care of your fellow Musketeers, should anyone get wounded.”

“Aramis, here, is our regiment’s finest medic and he will be leading the medical training this week,” the captain said, watching Aramis closely.

Aramis’ eyes opened wide with surprise at the unexpected training order, “Captain, I. . .”

“That is all. Dismissed,” the captain abruptly cut him short. “Do your job, Aramis,” he ordered, walking away.

The medic looked over the table covered in basic medical supplies; bandages, sewing thread, gauze, and antiseptics. . . and his satchel. He hadn’t seen his satchel, let alone looked inside it, since. . .

Aramis opened the satchel; immediately, the odor of feverfew wafted out. He looked inside, pulled out the small brown bag that was still full of the herb.

His mind went back to before the doomed mission when Athos had that awful headache, _the captain advised me to take along plenty of feverfew for Athos, enough to last the trip._

Aramis dropped the bag and satchel as his face paled. He stood unmoving--staring ahead at nothing--his mind having returned to the past.

A Musketeer recruit laughed, “I expected better from the Musketeer Regiment than these people. I heard the one who died was a drunkard. This man here is a fool; he’s a washed up has-been.”

With lightning speed, Aramis swung around and, with his right fist punched the recruit, sending the man flying into a wooden beam of the awning. The recruit slid to the ground in a heap.

Porthos and d’Artagnan were immediately with Aramis trying to pull the furious Musketeer off the recruit, while trying to prevent him from pummeling the man to death.

Aramis, in his wild anger, turned to blindly punch the man who grabbed him off the recruit—only to hit d’Artagnan. The young Gascon was knocked flat on his back to the ground.

Porthos switched to using brute strength to restrain Aramis further but then felt the man go limp in his arms.

“D’Artagnan? Oh God, I’m sorry,” Aramis said, his voice cracking.

"It's alright, Aramis..." d'Artagnan replied, still lying on the ground.

“Captain,” Aramis said, his eyes welling with tears. “I can’t do this. . . I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” 

Reaching to his arm, Aramis pulled the pauldron from his sleeve and dropped it to the ground in front of d’Artagnan. “I’m done. I quit.”

Aramis turned and walked away; leaving the garrison and the Musketeers behind him, for good.

Porthos picked up the pauldron, “I’ll go after ‘im, Captain.” Porthos ran out of the garrison, chasing after his friend and brother.

**Later:**

“What will you do without the Musketeers, ‘Mis?” Porthos asked. “It’s all you ever wanted to do.”

“That may have been true at one time, Porthos,” Aramis said sadly. “It’s not true anymore; not since Athos died. I just don’t have it in me anymore.”

"You don't 'ave what, 'Mis?"

“The pride I had in being a Musketeer is gone; my desire to be a Musketeer is gone,” Aramis said flatly. "With Athos gone now. . . I just can’t stay.”

“What will you do?” Porthos repeated his earlier question.

“I thought I would go back to the village of Chamarande for a while to begin a new adventure with our new acquaintances,” he said smiling. “M. Berteau believed I had missed my true calling—maybe he was right.”

“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?” Porthos asked, tilting his head slightly.

“M. Berteau suggested that I train under him and M. Molyneux to learn the skills necessary to become a physician or a surgeon. There are only two hospitals in all of France—and both are right here in Paris. I’d like to open an infirmary in Orléans—we’d already have the medical team—we just need a building,” Aramis paused for a moment. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while, Porthos. I didn’t say anything before now because I wasn’t certain--until today. Now, I know it’s what I have to do. I have to move on, I can’t be a Musketeer anymore.”

Aramis continued softly, “I’m dying inside, Porthos. I dread walking into the garrison every day, acting like I’ve moved on. I'm just _pretending_ that I’ve moved past Athos being gone every day that I walk through those gates.” Aramis whispered.

"But. . . " 

“I can’t pretend anymore, I’m sorry. Porthos, I’m so sorry. . .” Aramis broke down and cried.

Porthos took Aramis into his arms and cried with him until Aramis finally pulled away, wiping at his eyes.

“Guess that just made my decision a whole lot easier then,” Porthos declared, smiling.

“What decision?” Aramis asked, blowing his nose dry.

“Hell, with Athos gone—and now you too—I can’t stay either. I won’t have the desire to be a Musketeer anymore if you’re not there, Aramis. I think it’s time for both of us to move on,” Porthos nodded to himself.

“What about d’Artagnan? This is going to hurt him pretty severely with us both leaving.”

“Yes, I know,” Porthos agreed with a frown. “But he’s young and he’s got his entire career ahead o’ him. Athos believed d’Artagnan could be the greatest Musketeer of us all; I believe he could be right.”

Porthos continued, “d’Artagnan needs to stay with the Musketeers, rising in the ranks and becoming the best Musketeer France has ever known. And he will. . . I know he will!”

**Later at the Garrison:**

 

“You two take care of each other,” Captain Tréville said, shaking the hands of Porthos and Aramis. “Don’t be a stranger, gentlemen. You know you are always welcome here.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Aramis. “But we should probably return these,” Aramis and Porthos held their pauldrons out to the captain.

Tréville looked at Porthos and Aramis in shock; he shook his head then casually put his hands behind his back. “No, you earned those with years of faithful and loyal service to the king. They are yours—you will always be a part of the Musketeer family. Good luck, gentlemen.” 

Captain Tréville shook hands with the former Musketeers and left d’Artagnan alone with his friends to talk.

 

“You never told me what you planned to do, Porthos,” d’Artagnan asked.

“I’m going to keep Aramis and Cécile in business,” Porthos nodded, smiling happily.

“Excuse me?” d’Artagnan asked, raising his eyebrows in confusion.

“I’m going to be a privateer,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll keep ‘em in business alright,” he said, nodding his head proudly.

“A privateer?” 

“It’s a fancier way of saying bounty hunter,” Aramis added, rolling his eyes.

“Ah, of course,” d’Artagnan snorted. “I should have known,” he shook his head. “Well, you’ll certainly be good at it, Porthos. I have a feeling your fighting skills and size will give you quite an advantage in that field.”

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, d’Artagnan quietly asked, “when will I ever see you again?”

“Ah, d’Artagnan,” Aramis reached out to put his hand on the Gascon's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “We’re not going to be that far away, just down in Orléans. Porthos will be there too—sometimes--when he’s not out looking for his next bounty.”

“We’re brothers, remember?” Porthos reminded his young friend. “That will never change.”

“What will I do without you both?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“You’ll go on being a Musketeer, that’s what you’ll do,” answered Aramis, matter-of-factly.

“But. . .”

“But nothing, d’Artagnan,” Aramis scolded. “To be a Musketeer was your life’s dream--and you made it! No way are you giving that up; not for us, not for anyone.”

“No, you stay and become the great Musketeer your father wanted you to be. You stay and become the great Musketeer Athos believed you would be," Aramis smiled with a pause. "You stay and become the great Musketeer that we _know_ you can be.”

“Never has our motto been more relevant than it is right now,” Porthos added.

“What do you mean?” d’Artagnan asked.

“All for one; the _one_ is Athos. All of us were touched and influenced by Athos in some way—as friends, as brothers, as Musketeers. The love we feel for our fallen brother will never diminish, but we’ll carry that love with us the rest of our lives,” Porthos said, his eyes filling with tears.

“One for all; now the _one_ is you, d’Artagnan. _You_ will go on as a Musketeer for _all_ of us. You will have a part of each of us with you wherever you go; we will always be there by your side in thought and memory, little brother.” 

“You become the greatest Musketeer. . . for all of us, d’Artagnan. You become the greatest Musketeer in France. . . and make us proud!”

**A Glimpse Into the Future:**

 

D’Artagnan stayed with the Musketeer Regiment, rising through the ranks, eventually being promoted to Captain of the Musketeer Guard when Captain Tréville retired.

Tréville could think of no better replacement than d’Artagnan for the position as captain. When the king asked for Tréville’s recommendation for the position of captain, he enthusiastically recommended the best Musketeer in the regiment—d’Artagnan. 

Though with the accolades of a distinguished career, never was d’Artagnan happier than at home with his wife, Constance, and their four beautiful children, Oliver, Élise, Isabelle, and Thomas.

D’Artagnan did indeed see his brothers, Aramis and Porthos, often. They spent time together when work allowed; and vacationed together with their wives and families. 

Never were three brothers closer—their wives, bonded like sisters.

*****

After a year of training in Chamarande with M. Berteau and M. Molyneux, Aramis moved to Orléans. With the assistance of M. Molyneux and Cécile, they opened the very first infirmary in the prospering and growing town of Orléans.

Word spread quickly, as the only infirmary south of Paris, people came from many parts of southern France to get their ailments treated. Business was booming--and Aramis couldn’t be happier.

He finally worked up the courage to ask Cécile to marry him. Honestly, Aramis never thought he’d ever find the right girl. Every girl he really loved was taken from him; or she wasn’t his to have in the first place.

Having a true love was just a distant dream—something always to wish for—but knowing it would never come true.

Until now.

**Aramis POV:**

 

Cécile, my beautiful Cécile. Who would’ve dreamed that I would meet the love of my life in such a tragic way as the death of my dear friend, Athos. 

If only I could have had Athos _and_ Cécile in my life—but instead true love had to come at such an expensive cost. 

To have found one love, meant losing the other.

Will it ever be worth the cost?

It is a question too difficult, and will remain forever unanswered in my mind. . . and my heart.

Perhaps Cécile and our three beautiful children--Athos, Charles and Noelle—can make me believe that, perhaps, it was worth the cost.

*****

Porthos continued living the life of adventure, traveling to exotic locations chasing after dangerous criminals and pirates.

Really, his life as a privateer was no different than his life as a Musketeer—every bit as dangerous and every bit as thrilling.

The idea of ever settling down was preposterous to Porthos. How could he possibly give up such a life of bold enterprises—the challenge of the chase and the thrill of the hunt?

That was true. . . until a voyage took him to the beautiful island of Jamaica where he found an exotic beauty with dark hair and dark eyes, who also loved a life of adventure.

Porthos married her and brought her back with him to France, where they had two beautiful sons. 

Theirs was a life that was never dull—they were always up for a challenge—but today their chosen adventures keep them closer to home and their friends in Orléans France.

On occasion, Porthos brings along a travel companion on the shorter trips, for old time’s sake—his best friend and brother, Aramis.

*****

One day as life was slowing down, three brothers and their families gathered together for a reunion—including wives, children, and grandchildren.

They were reminiscing about their younger swashbuckling days as King’s Musketeers—telling tall tales to the little grandchildren who knew nothing of their grandpapa’s adventures.

The memories, though bittersweet, no longer brought tears like they used to, but the aching remnants of loss still seem as fresh as it was in their younger days.

Never was this more evident than when d’Artagnan’s little six year-old grandson climbed into his lap to ask, “Grandpapa, were you the greatest Musketeer ever in France?”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes, blinking away the tears, as he answered his little grandson what he felt to be the truth.

“Was I the greatest Musketeer in France? No, the greatest Musketeer in France was not me, little Aramis,” said d’Artagnan.

“Well, then, who was he, Grandpapa?” asked the child.

“The greatest Musketeer in all of France. . . his name was Athos.”

*****

**Author’s Notes:**

 

I hoped that you enjoyed the Epilogue, writing about my take on what might have happened after the death of Athos. I actually loosely based what happened in my story to real life; following the real lives of the real four Musketeers that Alexandre Dumas based his stories on. 

I find their stories both fascinating, yet sad:

Armand d’Athos was born in 1615 and was actually first cousin to Isaac de Porthau (Porthos), AND they were second or third cousin to Henri d’Aramitz (Aramis)! No wonder they were so close, they had grown up together as family!!

They all eventually joined the _Musketeers of the Guard._

Sadly, d’Athos was only a Musketeer for three short years, when he was killed in a duel in 1643 at the age of 28.

Aramitz did indeed marry and have two sons and a daughter. He was a Musketeer for 8 years; leaving the Musketeer Guard to look after his father’s estate after his father passed away.

Porthau also married and had two sons. He was a Musketeer for 12 years; and he also left the Musketeer Guard after his father passed away.

Now, the fascinating thing is that d’Artagnan was actually OLDER than all the other three!! Charles de Batz de Castelmore d’Artagnan was born in 1611. . . making him four years older than Athos—the next oldest. 

(Aramitz was born in 1620—making him the YOUNGEST, and Porthau was born in 1617)

D’Artagnan was Captain of the Musketeer Guard under King Louis XIV, serving with a distinguished and full career. He was killed on the battlefield (with a musket ball to the throat) when King Louis XIV attacked the Dutch Republic. He was 62 years old. I don’t know if he ever married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****The memories shared in the Flashback scene do not belong to me but are from BBC _The Musketeers_ Season 1 episodes:  
>  Friends and Enemies  
> Commodities  
> The Good Soldier  
> The Challenge
> 
> Why I named this chapter _Memories:_  
>  Do any of you know the song by Elvis Presley, called _Memories?_ It's a sad song that is all about remembering the past. I am an Elvis fan (huge Elvis fan!!) and while writing this story...this song actually came to my mind, several times...which I would then have start singing out loud! I can't think of a better, more fitting title than _Memories._
> 
> Memories
> 
> Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind.  
> Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine.
> 
> Quiet thoughts come floating down  
> And settle softly to the ground  
> Like golden autumn leaves around my feet.  
> I touched them and they burst apart with sweet memories,  
> Sweet memories
> 
> Of holding hands and red bouquets,  
> And twilight trimmed in purple haze,  
> And laughing eyes and simple ways,  
> And quiet nights and gentle days with you.
> 
> Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind  
> Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine.  
> Memories, memories, sweet memories.


	12. The Miracle, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, my long-promised alternate ending--with a twist. If you did a side-by-side comparison between chapter 10, and even chapter 11, you would see a lot of similarities--some are word-for-word extractions from the chapters.
> 
> I thought it would be interesting to weave the chapters together, connecting them in some way as I finally wrap this story up, rather than having them as separate stories. You will see more of the twist as I finish up with part II....bear with me!
> 
>  _*Cuilte_ is Celtic for quilt--yes, they used quilt racks in 17th century Europe!
> 
> I researched the earliest treatments for sepsis and found that the Greek physician, Crisipo de Gnido, articles did indeed document the ancient Egyptian treatments mentioned in this story. I did not make any of the concoctions and mixtures up--those treatments were really used--and evidently, they worked!

The two Musketeers crept stealthily from d’Artagnan’s sickroom, closing the door quietly behind them. They walked down the hall with arms intertwined around each other’s shoulders, still smiling from the success of their young friend’s surgery.

Cécile rushed out of Athos’s room. “He’s awake!” she cried with excitement. 

Aramis and Porthos rushed into the room to be at their brother’s side. They sat down in the two chairs positioned beside the bed where they had been keeping vigil nearly every waking moment since they got permission to stay.

The emergency with d’Artagnan had been the only distraction pulling them away from Athos’ side since his health declined. Now, with the young Gascon on the mend, Porthos and Aramis could redirect their attention back to the brother whose life was slipping away. His life hung in the balance; the scale could easily be tipped either way. 

Aramis and Porthos could barely contain their excitement as they saw their sick brother finally awake. Athos’ green eyes appeared glossed over, but they were open and focused on his friends.

“Hey, brother Athos,” said Aramis softly. “About time you woke up from your nap. You had us worried, mon ami.” Aramis placed his hand to the fevered forehead, stroking softly with his thumb. _Much too hot,_ he thought.

Athos’ mouth curled up with a faint smile that faded in seconds. Even the act of smiling left him exhausted, his eyelids flutter closed. He felt tired, so tired. . . he just wants to sleep.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Porthos softly tapped the cheek of his friend to waken him. “You’ve slept long enough, brother. We’re here to keep you awake, so just get used to it,” he gently teased.

Despite the teasing rebuke from his friends, Athos’ heavy eyelids were drooping. He could barely muster the strength to keep his tired eyes from closing; through glazed eyes, he clearly saw the worry etched on his friend's faces.

 _I have to fight—for their sake._

 

**Athos POV:**

I want to tell my brothers everything is going to be alright, but I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.

I see the worry on their faces; no words are necessary when I can plainly read the fear so obvious in their eyes.

I want to get well again so we can return to the garrison together and get back to work. I just want everything to return to normal again.

The two brothers in front of me are my right and my left hand. They have been there for me--and with me--through thick and thin. They have been with me through good and bad; through my mood swings and carefree days.

Porthos and Aramis, and d’Artagnan too, were there to pull me from the wretchedness of my despair, when my past haunted me; when all I wanted to do was die. 

My brothers accepted me for who I am, despite the demons I carried with me. Porthos and Aramis accepted me as a friend and as a brother; they allowed a special place in their hearts for me, without judging me for my past.

I know they are the only reason I didn’t drink myself to an early grave. 

My brothers were my strength when I was too drunk to give a damn. Many times they were my only support when drunkenness brought me to my knees. I recall the frequent nights they stayed with me, nursing me back to health until I was sober.

I fondly remember that last morning in my room when I retched into a bowl Porthos provided at the last second. Then Porthos was pulling me to my feet and helping me get dressed. Aramis was also there to help clean me up. 

I don’t deserve such unwavering friendship. Sometimes I wonder why they don’t just wash their hands of me and walk away—why they don’t write me off as a lost cause. 

Thankfully, they have not done so.

Instead, they are there to pick me up again, pulling me up by the collar to my feet, if necessary. They are never content to let me wallow in my misery.

My friends have been a comfort to me when I was drowning in my self-induced stupors of sorrow. They don’t question my reasons or criticize my actions, but simply offer friendship and support. 

Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan have each held me when the pain was so great I’d have broken apart if not for their presence. I still feel the strong arms of my brothers holding me close when wracked by nightmares of my past. 

My friends--these Musketeers--are closer to me as brothers than my own brother, Thomas. Captain Tréville dubbed the three of us _The Inseparables;_ Porthos and Aramis are my brothers in every manner but blood. 

For their sake, I am trying to be strong; I cannot let my brothers down.

I cannot bear to think of what my death would do to them--what my death do to _The Inseparables._ I cannot be responsible for destroying who they are as Musketeers—so I have to hang on. 

But it’d be so much easier to let go. . .

I never cared about my reputation of being the best swordsman in France, but honor—both as a man and as a Musketeer—never allowed room for defeat. 

I hate to lose—but this may be the hardest fight yet.

My title as comte meant nothing to me but my title as Musketeer means everything. I willingly gave up everything--my nobility, my money, my home, my inheritance--to be a Musketeer standing at the side of my brothers Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan.

I would also willingly give up my own life to save any one of my brothers--or all of them.

Despite where I am now, there is nothing I would change about my decision to stay behind in the forest to fight. By staying, I gave my brothers time to get away; it allowed them the chance to survive. 

I knew Aramis and d’Artagnan would not make it much longer. I did what I had to do to save their lives.

And I’d do it again.

There simply was no other option. I would never be able to live with myself knowing that I had let them die. Their lives are worth more than my own.

*****

“d’rrtt. . .” Athos wheezed in a whisper.

Aramis smiled, despite himself. This is just like Athos, always thinking of others before himself. “He’s going to be just fine. We got the ball from his back—he’ll be on his feet again in no time.”

Athos nodded, blinking back tears of relief. His tired eyes glanced up at Aramis’ bandaged head, questioningly. 

“What, this?” Aramis pointed to his head. "Yes, my head is fine. Don’t worry, Athos, God gave me a really hard head. You’ve said as much yourself,” he said in jest.

Athos turned his eyes to Porthos. His eyes took in the scratches, the bandage on his neck. _Are you okay?_

The other Musketeers in the regiment thought it very strange that _The Inseparables_ could communicate their thoughts and questions silently with their eyes. It was no different in this room.

“I’m fine too,” said Porthos, my neck was just grazed, remember?” He tried to remind Athos he knew of the ‘minor’ injury after it happened on the road, just before they entered the forest.

Unlike the scratches, it would be a long time before he could speak about the horrors—the dead bodies lying in the dark of the forest. He had to get away from the ghosts in the forest.

“‘Mis and d’Art are both going to be fine because of you. They’re alive because of what _you_ did for all of us back there in the forest,” Porthos paused.

“But none of that means a damn thing, Athos, if you don’t fight for yourself--for your own life! Your life matters, brother. You matter to all of us.” Porthos wiped away a tear spilling from the corner of his eye.

“Sss. . .” Athos tried to speak but was interrupted by a fit of coughing, leaving him gasping. His lungs were burning; his face turned a deep shade of red. He tried gulping a mouthful of air but he was coughing too hard. 

Athos was left gasping and wheezing; he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs to catch his breath.

Aramis turned to M. Berteau. "Isn’t there a way we can prop him on his side? We can still keep his wound uncovered, but elevate his head so he can breathe,” Aramis suggested. “He can’t breathe lying flat on his stomach like this!”

Porthos pulled Athos into his arms, turning him up slightly as he held his head, until he could catch his breath. “I’ve got you, brother. Just breathe for me, in and out. . . in and out. In. . . and out,” he coached. “Just keep breathing.”

 

Athos’ breathing was labored and raspy, but at least he wasn’t gasping for his next breath. The fight to breathe left him weak, sapping more strength he didn’t have left to give. No longer able to keep his drooping eyes open, he let them slide shut. 

“Don’t you _dare_ slip away from us,” Aramis ordered. “You stay with us, Athos—you stay awake!” Aramis took Athos’ hand. “I’m not letting go,” he squeezed his hand hard. “Don’t you let go either!”

M. Molyneux brought over several pillows. Aramis and Porthos gently rolled Athos onto his right side, while the doctor pushed the pillows in behind him, keeping him upright. Cécile used several pillows to elevate his head and upper body, taking the pressure off his lungs. 

“There, are you comfortable enough, mon cher?” Aramis asked.

Athos gave a tiny nod, his eyes still closed, “th’ss.”

“No need to thank me, my friend. I'm just making sure you are comfortable, that you’re able to breathe. You can be a little stubborn sometimes, you know,” Aramis bantered. “You never liked admitting to anyone that you were hurting; you never like to ask anyone for help.”

Athos made a throaty grunting noise in protest.

"You are only human," Aramis paused, "it's okay to ask for help sometimes. That’s what we’re here for; that’s what friends do to help each other.”

“No one will think any less of you if you need a shoulder to lean on, every now and then,” Aramis said. He rested a hand on Athos’ forehead.

“Hell,” Porthos chimed in, “no one will ever think of you any higher than the two of us, and d’Artagnan, already do. You’ve got _nothing_ to prove to any of us—except that you’re strong enough to beat this.”

*****

Just then, M. Berteau entered the room carrying thick medical journals in his arms. “Gentlemen, if I may have a word with you in the hallway, please,” the physician motioned with his head.

Aramis and Porthos nodded to the doctor but first turned their attention back to Athos. "We’ll be right back, okay? We’ll just be in the hallway for a minute, so don’t you go to sleep on us.” 

Aramis put his forehead to Athos’ while rubbing his shoulder, feeling reluctant to leave his friend’s side—even for a minute.

Porthos nudged Aramis by his shoulder. "Come on, ‘Mis, Athos will be alright for just a minute,” he said, pushing him to the door. 

“Rest, my friend,” Porthos whispered in Athos’ ear before he walked away. “We’ll be right back.”

“What is it, doctor?” Aramis asked once Porthos joined them.

“I’ve been reading my medical journals—doing extensive research—and have found something that may save your friend’s life,” said the older physician eagerly.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, their eyes wide with hope. “What is it?” the Musketeers asked anxiously.

“I found several fascinating articles journaled by the Greeks, specifically articles written by Crisipo de Gnido, in which he documented natural remedies used by the ancient Egyptians going back perhaps a thousand years.”

“What are they?” Aramis asked. “Can we use them to help Athos?”

“Yes, I think so,” said the doctor, not fully answering the question. “I will need to send Cécile and Jean-Luc to Orléans to get more supplies immediately.”

“You didn’t answer my question, M. Berteau,” Aramis stated. “What are they?”

“The ancient Egyptians used honey, mixed with grease—or butter—impregnated with garlic and herbs to pull infection from wounds. The mix is applied directly into the wound itself, as well as around the wound. The mix can also be given to him orally with water.”

Aramis glanced silently at Porthos as he waited for the doctor to continue.

“I have several different remedies written down, and may try variations of each in some fashion; but these remedies were proven to work and were documented by the Egyptians—and then the Greeks--as successful.”

“You said garlic and honey, and herbs?” Aramis asked eagerly. “Do you have those ingredients so we can get started now?”

“I have some of them, yes,” said doctor Berteau. “Gentlemen, this will be the most aggressive attempt at treatment for an ailment I have ever attempted,” the doctor stated truthfully. “It’s going to take constant work and vigilance on our part.”

“Doctor, we’re up to the task,” said Porthos. “You name it, we’ll do it!”

“We will work in shifts so that we don’t wear ourselves down,” the doctor advised. “We must remain strong and alert for your friend; if we are tired and worn down, we do him no good.”

“We understand, doctor,” said Aramis. “We’ll do anything—and I mean, _anything_ \--to save Athos.”

“Anything, doctor,” Porthos agreed. “Tell us what we have to do.”

“This may be the hardest mission ever set before you,” M. Berteau said. “You may feel, at times, that our efforts are in vain. The important thing to remember, however, is that we must not despair or give up.”

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout that, doctor,” Porthos said resolutely. “We don’t plan to give up on Athos--ever!”

“Good,” said Berteau. “If one method does not work, then we will try another. We must confuse this infection so it cannot resist treatment. Eventually, the infection will break down--and finally--we will have the upper hand.”

“The first forty-eight hours will be most crucial,” Berteau paused. “Are you both sure that you are up to the challenge?”

“Absolutely,” both Musketeers said together.

“Doctor, I don’t care how little I eat or how little I sleep in the next forty-eight hours,” Aramis stated firmly. “I would give up anything—everything--to save the life of my friend, my brother.”

“Same here,” chimed in Porthos. “There is nothing we won’t do to save ‘im. What do you want us to do?”

 

“Cécile is bringing up the first ingredients so we can get started with that treatment right away,” said Berteau.

“The other treatments include packing his wound with linens soaked in wine and vinegar, and using rose oil and honey around the wound itself. In addition, we will give him a bath mixed with wine and vinegar; this will aid in reducing his fever as well as drawing infection from the wound and the blood system.”

The doctor continued eagerly, “we can also try lemon or lime juice—each are natural disinfectants—both on the wound and given to him orally with water. We will also try using crushed turmeric to mix with the crushed garlic and honey as a salve.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows, “that is quite a plan—I only pray to God it works.”

“I will have M. Molyneux start drawing the water for his vinegar bath first,” said the doctor. “We will start by getting his whole body soaking in the wine and vinegar to reduce the fever—it’s going to be rather cool—so he may resist some.”

“Afterward, we will pack his wound with the soaked linens, using the garlic and honey salve. You two start by stripping Athos down to his braies, and we’ll get him into the bath,” instructed M. Berteau.

 

The team got busy preparing a bath, filling the tub with cool water mixed with a generous amount of wine and vinegar.

“Okay, are you ready?” Porthos asked Athos as he rubbed his good shoulder softly.

Athos’ eyes grew large with anxiety, gazing suddenly at the tub in fear.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Porthos soothed his friend. “This is going to help you get better; we’re going to do everything we can to get you well again. You need to work with us here—don’t fight this, Athos.”

“Are you ready, brother?” Aramis whispered to Athos.

Athos gave a faint nod, yes.

 

Although Athos trusted in his friends with all his heart to take care of him, he couldn't help but be afraid.

While Athos wanted to get better—for his friend’s sake—he feared the road that was ahead. The experienced Musketeer knew the best way to face a storm was to plunge headfirst into the fray, but that didn't help calm the dread brewing in his mind.

Athos was not a sailor, yet he knew a ship was safest when turning its bow _into_ the angry waves and wind. If you tried turning away, the waves would break you apart and pull you down to a watery grave.

He knew that he had only two choices: either he faced the stormy sea ahead and fight; or he could wither away and die on the bed, gasping for his last breath.

 

Porthos carried Athos to place him into the tub; situating him so that his wounded shoulder was submerged. The large Musketeer held onto Athos, holding the weakened man’s head above water.

Athos stiffened suddenly, feebly trying to escape the cold liquid therapy, sending water sloshing over the edge. The wounded man began to panic, though he lacked the strength to fight or resist. 

“Whoa, easy there,” Porthos said softly. “Please don’t fight this; it’s goin’ to help you get better. I promise, brother, I won’t let you go under—I’ve got you.” 

“Make sure his wound stays submerged at all times—the wine and vinegar will help pull the infection from his body,” doctor Berteau instructed.

 

“Well, I never thought I would be doing this,” Aramis said with a chuckle.

“Doin’ what?” Porthos asked.

“Giving Athos a bath in fine wine,” Aramis said with a devilish smile. “I mean, is this something maybe Milady should be doing, huh?”

Athos shifted suddenly, flailing at the mention of the name. The sudden moved caused Porthos to almost drop the patient's head below water.

“Hey, watch now. . .” M. Berteau warned.

“‘Mis, really?!” Porthos glared at Aramis, while calming Athos.

“Our objective, gentlemen, is to help _heal_ the patient; not upset him or cause him to drown,” Berteau said, flatly.

“Sorry,” Aramis shrugged, grinning sheepishly.

 

“How long do we keep ‘im in here, doctor? He’s startin’ to shiver,” Porthos later asked with concern.

“Well,” said the doctor, “he’s been in there several minutes now. Let us go ahead and get him out.

Porthos carefully lifted Athos from the tub. Berteau and Aramis were ready with towels to begin drying the shivering man; afterward they got him changed into dry clothes and situated comfortably on the bed.

“Alright, let’s pack a good amount of the garlic and honey into the wound, then we’ll bandage it up with the soaked linens. We will finish with more honey and rose oil all around the wound,” M. Berteau instructed.

Aramis packed a copious amount of the mixture into the wound, causing Athos to flinch at the touch, wincing as it started to sting.

“I’m sorry, mon ami,” Aramis apologized profusely. “You need to hold still so we can get this salved, then we’ll be all done.”

“Hursss. . .” Athos slurred, wearily.

“I know, but we have to do this--I’m sorry.” Aramis shook his head while glancing at Porthos.

After the ministrations Athos was left exhausted, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. He let his eyes close, no longer having the strength to keep them open. He fell asleep almost instantly.

“Let him sleep,” the doctor said quietly. “He needs the rest as much as he needs the medicinal treatments. These treatments are going to exhaust the poor man and, quite possibly, cause him great discomfort. We must let him sleep while he can.”

“When should we change the dressing and salve again?” Aramis asked.

“We will check it again in about two or three hours.”

*****

Doctor Berteau checked the wound on Athos’ shoulder only to see no visible change. However, the physician noticed sweat now beading above Athos’ lip and across his forehead. He also noticed that his skin was growing hotter to the touch.,/p>

The doctor sighed heavily and frowned to himself, unaware that he was being watched.

“What’s wrong, doctor?” Aramis asked with alarm.

“It appears his fever is increasing,” answered the doctor, still frowning. “I’m not sure if that is a good sign—showing that his body is fighting the infection; or a bad sign—that the treatment so far is doing no good.”

“Didn’t you say that this would take several treatments of various ingredients,” asked Porthos.

“You also said not to give in to despair,” reminded Aramis with a smile. “He’s only had one treatment, doctor.”

“Yes, you are quite right, Aramis. I should learn to follow my own advice,” the doctor chuckled lightly. “Next time we do the salve, we will add the turmeric to the honey mixture; and we might try getting him to drink the mixture with water as well.”

Porthos snorted, “yeah, that may be easier said than done.”

*****

Aramis and Porthos peeled back the nearly-dry linen bandages to begin cleaning out the old salve and prepare for the new mixture. M. Berteau, carefully poured lime juice directly in and around the wound to disinfect and cleanse. 

As the lime juice poured, Athos woke with a yelp utterly writhing in pain. “S-s-s-stop p-pleessse,” he said as tremors of pain reverberated throughout his body.

Aramis took Athos’ shaking hand and squeezed. “I’ve got you; I know it hurts. I’m here, just hang in there.”

“Almost done, mon cher,” Aramis said as he wiped the beads of sweat rolling into his friend’s eyes.

The doctor packed in more of the honey mixture, with added turmeric, into the wound. 

Athos hissed in pain as he stiffened and then suddenly went limp, his head lolled off to the side. 

Porthos’ eyes grew large, “‘Mis?”

Aramis checked Athos’ pulse, letting out a breath of relief at finding a steady beat. “He’s okay, he just passed out,” he sighed. “At least he doesn’t feel the pain now.”

Aramis paused and furrowed his brow. The medic placed his ear on Athos’ chest to listen, concern evident on his face.

“What’s wrong, ‘Mis?”

“Doctor, I hear a whistling sound when he breathes; there is also a bubbling, raspy sound in his lungs.” Aramis sat up to look between the doctor and Porthos.

“I’ll go get some peppermint oil and lungwort herb with boiling water; we can make a steam tent with a sheet to help ease his breathing,” the doctor said.

“This is going to be a long night,” Aramis said to Porthos. “Why don’t you go rest for a while, you look exhausted, mon ami.”

“No way,” Porthos refused. “I’m not leaving here.”

“Listen, Porthos,” Aramis sighed. “M. Berteau said that we can’t allow ourselves to get worn down, remember? Go rest and I’ll come get you after a few hours.”

Porthos narrowed his eyes, watching Aramis closely. “You better get me up in a few hours, especially if Athos takes a turn for the worse. I want to get back in here to spend time with 'im too, you hear me?”

“Sure will,” Aramis nodded. “Oh, and don’t go to d’Artagnan’s room and start talking with him either; just go to bed and rest. I’ll come to get you soon.”

Aramis settled in beside Athos’ bed, listening to the wheezing breaths of his friend. He bowed his head to pray. 

He prayed for the steam treatment to work in clearing his friend’s lungs; he prayed for the treatments to work in saving his friend’s life. 

 

Athos shifted listlessly in his sleep. Aramis placed a soothing hand on Athos’ shoulder, softly rubbing in circles; his other hand tenderly rested on the hot forehead.

“I’m here, my friend,” he whispered in a quiet voice. “Rest now, Athos, it’s okay. . . you’re going to be okay.”

 

After sitting quietly while listening to the wheezing breaths of his friend, Aramis began pouring out his thoughts. His mid was a swirling storm of guilt and fear.

“I don’t know exactly what the captain said to you in the office before the mission, but I know what he said to me,” Aramis spoke to Athos, remembering.

“The captain considered replacing you on this mission--with me. I told him I didn’t want to command, but that my place has always been at your side.” Aramis shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I tried to protect you in the field by that road when we were first attacked; there were so many damn raiders everywhere I couldn’t stop them all. I got hit. . .” Aramis stopped short as his voice cracked, guilt overwhelming him.

“I left you alone out there; you could’ve been killed,” Aramis rubbed Athos’s cheek softly. “I didn’t know what you did in the forest until Porthos told me.”

“Athos, why?” Aramis asked tearfully. “Why did you risk your life for me—for us? What about you, Athos? Doesn’t your life matter? Why would you trade your life for mine? I don’t deserve this. . .” Aramis choked on his sobs. He fell into the blanket next to Athos and let his emotions flow freely.

Athos heard the lamenting of his friend, the tearful cries of why he would risk his own life to save his friends. . . and his breath hitched.

_“He doesn’t understand why? Does Aramis still not know that I would gladly give up my own life to save his life, or d’Artagnan’s life, because they are my brothers--because I love them?”_

“‘Mis,” Athos brought his hand to rest on Aramis’ head. “I l-l’ve. . . y-you. . . s’ why.” A lone tear slipped from Athos’ eye, sliding down his fevered skin.

Aramis looked up, “Athos? Mon Dieu, you’re awake! Did you hear what I just said?” he asked, almost embarrassed.

“I. . . did. . . it,” Athos struggled to speak, every word sapping his strength. "I did. . . I. . . love. . . you.”

Aramis swallowed a sob, his eyes filled with tears. “I love you too, my friend,” Aramis smiled. “It hurts seeing you like this, knowing it’s because of me—knowing it’s my fault.”

“‘Mis, it’s. . . not. . .” Athos’ words were cut off with a bout of coughing, choking the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping for breath.

M. Berteau returned to set up the steam tent using a cuilte* rack to drape the sheet and pull it over Athos’ head and shoulders. The doctor put the pot of boiling herb water on a small table under the rack to allow the steam to flow inside the tent. “There,” said the doctor, “this should help him breathe easier.”

Aramis got underneath the sheet and took hold of Athos’ hand. “I’m right here, brother,” he soothed. “I’ll stay with you as long you need me. I promise, Athos, I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“I always wondered what it was like in those old Roman bathhouses,” Aramis quipped. "Damn, it’s hot under here," he complained, his face breaking out in droplets of sweat. “Oh what the hell, I needed a good skin cleansing anyway.”

Athos’ mouth turned up in a faint smile at the humorous bantering. His tired eyes soon closed; his breathing relaxed into a steady rhythm as he at last fell into a restful sleep.

“That’s right, mon cher,” Aramis whispered. “You rest; get well. I’ll be right here with you.”

*****

Porthos woke up, confused. “What the. . .?” he blurted upon noticing the morning sun rising. “Bloody hell, ‘Mis was s’posed to wake me hours ago!” 

The large Musketeer rushed to Athos’ room to find Aramis half-hidden underneath the sheet contraption. Porthos lifted the sheet to find Aramis asleep with his head resting beside Athos, an arm wrapped around his friend’s chest. Athos had his hand resting on Aramis’ back.

Porthos couldn’t help but stare at his two friends for a moment, smiling while shaking his head. "His back ‘ill be hurtin’ later.”

M. Molyneux busily prepared another mixture of salve for the next change of bandages. "It’s about time to wake up your friends.”

Porthos frowned at having to wake them. "Hey, ‘Mis?” he called.

“W-what?” Aramis awoke. “Damn. . . argh,” the sleepy man complained as he put his hands to his back, stretching and wincing in pain. “What time is it?”

“You were supposed to wake me in a few hours, remember?” Porthos growled.

“Porthos, I planned to but. . . I guess I fell asleep under there. I’m sorry, I know I promised I would wake you, but we’re all so tired. . .”

“You think you’re the only one who wants to sit with Athos?”

“Aw, hell, Porthos. . . do we have to do this now?” Aramis retorted angrily.

“The doctor said we have to work together—this is not working together, ‘Mis.”

“Porthos, dammit, I am _not_ going to argue with you right now,” he stood up quickly, tossing the sheet onto the bed. Aramis turned to take a step but collapsed, falling over into the chairs, then falling onto the hard floor.

“‘Mis! Porthos cried out, pushing the chairs away so he could kneel beside his friend. “Oh God, ‘Mis, what have I done?”

M. Molyneux was immediately at the side of the unconscious Musketeer, checking the old head wound for new bleeding. He got up then ran to the doorway, yelling, **“Cécile?** Dammit, Cécile, where are you?” 

Running from d’Artagnan’s room, Cécile rushed into the hallway, “I’m here, doctor!”

“Cécile, go find M. Berteau—I need help up here. Go now,” M. Molyneux ordered.

*****

D’Artagnan knew something was wrong when Cécile ran from the room at the yelling of M. Molyneux. He threw back the covers on his bed and swung his legs over the edge. He hesitated, knowing he didn't have the strength to stand; if he tried, he would end up on the floor. 

He had to get to that room, but he knew he couldn't do it alone.

D’Artagnan yelled out at the top of his lungs, **“help!** Doctor Berteau, Cécile. . . Molyneux? Anybody? Please!” he cried out desperately.

Finally, he heard the sound of running feet approaching, “D’Artagnan, are you alright?” M. Molyneux asked with concern.

“No, I’m not alright, dammit! What is going on in Athos’ room? What’s happened?” d’Artagnan yelled in a panic.

“D’Artagnan, it’s not what you’re thinking,” assured Molyneux.

“Then, what the hell is going on down there?”

“Aramis collapsed,” M. Molyneux sighed. “I don’t believe that he hit his head, but he is unconscious—probably from exhaustion. Athos is in need of another treatment now so while M. Berteau is caring for Aramis, I will have to take care of Athos. At least, I was going to. . . until you called.”

 

“Thank God,” d’Artagnan let out the breath he had been holding, covering his face with his hands. His heart thumped in his chest. He was expecting the worst possible news, and that terrified him to the core. 

“God, I thought. . .” d’Artagnan felt suddenly dizzy. He swayed on the bed slightly, his ears buzzing and his vision going fuzzy. Had it not been for M. Molyneux catching him, he would have fallen to the floor. 

“I have to get down there,” d’Artagnan said finally, after sitting still for a while. “I want to check on Aramis and then sit with Athos for a while.”

“I haven’t had a chance to see how my brothers are doing because I’ve been stuck in this damn room all by myself!” d’Artagnan said, his jaw set hard. “Please, let me go to Athos’ room with you.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea in your condition,” said the doctor.

“Dammit! d’Artagnan yelled out suddenly, his patience worn thin. “Either someone carries me or I’ll crawl down there myself!”

M. Molyneux shook his head. "Fine, I’ll take you down there but against my recommendation.” Gathering d’Artagnan into his arms, the physician carried the young Musketeer. They stopped by Aramis’ room so they could peek in, each trying to get a good look. 

In Aramis’ room, they briefly watched as Doctor Berteau peeled away the bandages from the old head wound, checking for further injury, though it didn’t appear that there was any. Porthos stood beside the bed holding the limp hand of his friend, worry creased on his face. 

M. Molyneux carried d’Artagnan into Athos’ room, setting him down in an over-sized chair which he slid beside the bed. “I need to change his dressing and reapply the salve; I will get started on that now,” he informed the Gascon.

“I’ll talk to him while you work,” suggested the young Gascon. “Maybe it’ll help keep him relaxed.”

The doctor nodded, and then began his work on the patient.

*****

“Remember, Athos, when you taught me to fight with my head, not my heart?” d’Artagnan spoke quietly. “This is one time you need to fight with your heart. . . fight with _all_ your heart, Athos.” 

D’Artagnan took Athos’ hand in his own, rubbing the top of the hand with his thumb. “You have to be strong and fight, Athos. You have to fight to get well; you must fight with all your heart.”

“When you helped prepare me to fight the Red Guard in the challenge, you taught me how to be a better swordsman; you taught me how to be a better fighter by fighting with my head—not my emotions.”

Athos started to wake, writhing on the bed from the pain of the ministrations. “D‘Arrt?” he squeaked in pain, scrunching his eyes closed.

“Oh God, doctor, he’s in pain!” d’Artagnan said with alarm.

Molyneux checked his patient’s pulse and breathing, then nodded. "He is doing alright. I know he’s in pain, but we have to do this. He’s still conscious, keep talking to him, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan leaned his head to Athos’ cheek, resting there a moment before whispering in his mentor’s ear. “I’m still here, brother.”

Athos shifted slightly, but didn’t open his eyes.

D’Artagnan continued speaking softly. "You know, getting your approval of my abilities as a fighter was all I ever wanted before that challenge. Now, all I want is for you to live.” The Gascon ran his fingers over the fevered forehead, frowning.

“I didn’t think I could ever be happier than the day I beat the Red Guard thug,” d’Artagnan paused. He shook his head at the memory. 

D’Artagnan looked over his once-healthy mentor; his skin flushed red with fever, the unruly hair plastered to his sweaty face. The young Musketeer hung his head as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“When you slipped the pauldron on my arm that was the proudest moment of my life--up to that point,” his voice cracked. D’Artagnan paused, wiping the tears from his wet face. “It will always be my most treasured memory, but now. . .”

“But now, it all pales in comparison to how I’d feel if you would pull through this, Athos! Please, fight and get well again,” d’Artagnan begged. “Please fight for us.”

Athos’ breath hitched, a lone tear rolled down his flushed cheek, “d’rt. . .”

D’Artagnan squeezed his mentor's hand, “I’m here, Athos. I’m right here, brother,” he squeezed again. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

*****

M. Berteau removed the bandages from Aramis’ head, checking over the wound thoroughly. “Well, it looks like the wound is healing nicely,” he informed Porthos. 

“Did he hit his head?”

“It doesn’t appear that he hit his head when he fell. He probably collapsed due to a combination of lack of sleep _and_ still not being well enough to have worn himself so thin,” the doctor said. “What he needs now is good rest.”

“I’ll stay with ‘im, doctor,” Porthos nodded, settling into a chair. “I’ll make sure he rests.”

*****

Aramis was listless in bed. He turned his head side-to-side, moaning Athos’ name again and again. Quick movement under closed eyelids told of a harrowing dream. 

“Shhh. . . I’ve got you, ‘Mis,” Porthos soothed. The larger Musketeer took Aramis’ hand and squeezed, while gently moving loose curls from the wounded man’s face.

 

_“Bring plenty of feverfew for Athos, enough to last the trip. . .”_

_“I have a bad feeling about this mission. . .”_

 

_“Gunshots coming from the trees. . .”_

 

_“Wait, how did I get here? Where is Athos?”_

 

_“You have to hang in there, Athos. . .”_

 

_“Don’t do this, Athos, Please, don’t leave us, brother. What will we do without you?”_

 

_A tear slipped from Athos’ eye, rolling across the bridge of his nose to drip down onto the pillow._

 

_“We can’t lose you, Athos. Please. . . don’t do this—don’t leave us.”_

 

_“I l-l’v youuu. . .” Athos said, taking one last breath._

 

 _Athos was gone._

 

_”No!” Aramis screamed out, falling limply over his friend. He pulled Athos’ head and shoulders tightly into his arms and let out a howl of wrenching pain. “No, Athos. No. . . no. . . no. . . no!” His shoulders trembled with uncontrolled sobs._

 

_Behind the black carriage carrying the body of Athos, rode his two brothers, Porthos and Aramis. Behind them followed the commander of the Musketeer Guard, Captain Tréville._

 

_The entire Musketeer Regiment, dressed in their finest uniforms, marched behind the carriage and the three on horseback, for the funeral procession to the cathedral._

 

_Athos was being hailed as a hero for saving his friend’s lives. He was buried beside his brother, Thomas._

 

_Aramis, in his wild anger, turned to punch d’Artagnan—knocking him flat to the ground._

_“Captain, I can’t do this anymore. . .”_

_Reaching to his arm, Aramis pulled the pauldron from his sleeve and dropped it to the ground, “I’m done, I quit.”_

_Aramis turned and walked away--leaving the garrison and the Musketeers behind him, forever._

 

“No!” Aramis screamed, sitting bolt upright in bed. “Oh God, please. . . please. . . Athos is dead! Please don't let Athos be dead!”

“Aramis! Aramis!” Porthos shouted, shaking the man by his shoulders trying to get through the panic. “Hey, ‘Mis, it’s okay. . . Athos is not dead!” 

“No, Athos died. . . please, no!”

Porthos shook Aramis by the shoulders roughly, “did you hear me? Athos is not dead—you were having a bad dream!”

“God, no! No, it was so real,” Aramis cried, tears filling his eyes and spilling onto his cheeks.

Porthos soothed his friend, “‘Mis, I swear to you, it was just a dream. Athos is across the hall. . . and he is alive, I swear.”

“Porthos, God, it was so real. . . it was so real. I have to go see for myself—I need to see Athos for myself.” Aramis started to get up but Porthos held him down.

“Look, if you want to go over there, you need to pull yourself together,” Porthos ordered. “You collapsed earlier because you’re so worn out—this is not helping yourself any.”

“I'm fine, Porthos. Really, I’m fine.” Aramis took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “Please, take me to see Athos.”

Porthos helped Aramis walk into the sickroom where they discovered d’Artagnan sitting beside Athos.

At the expression on the young Gascon’s face and the grim look of M. Berteau, the Musketeers stopped in their tracks. "What’s wrong?” they asked. 

“Athos’ fever is rising to dangerous levels; nothing we are doing is working,” M. Berteau reported bleakly. 

The older physician continued. “Athos is burning up; his skin is literally radiating the heat from inside his body. We can dip him in a cold bath to reduce the fever initially, but it’s the infection _inside_ his body causing the fever to spike. Nothing seems to be working at pulling that infection out.”

 

Aramis nearly collapsed to the floor, “Oh God. . . my dream!” the Musketeer choked back a sob.

“What is he talking about?” d’Artagnan asked with concern.

“Nothing—it was just a bad dream,” Porthos answered, not wanting to go into the details. “Are you alright, ‘Mis?”

Aramis quietly nodded, saying nothing.

“Doctor, is there nothing left that we can do?” Porthos pleaded.

“There is one more option—I was saving it only as a last resort,” the doctor said in a steely tone.

“What is it?” Aramis asked, his voice quivering.

“It’s something that has never been done before, and I’d say it’s very risky. I don’t know if it will work,” Berteau stated flatly. "But it’s the last _and only_ chance now to save his life.”

 

Stay Tuned for Part II. . .


	13. The Miracle, Part II

“Doctor, is there nothing left that we can do?” Porthos pleaded.

“There is one more option—I was saving it only as a last resort,” the doctor said in a resigned tone.

“What is it?” Aramis asked, his voice quivering.

“It’s something that has never been done before, and I’d say it’s very risky. I don’t know if it will work,” Berteau stated flatly. "But it’s his last _and only_ chance now to save his life.”

“What are you thinking of doing, doctor?” asked Aramis.

“I need for the garlic mixture to pull this infection out of his body but it’s not doing the job effectively enough from the shoulder,” doctor Berteau stated.

“It is obvious that the infection has spread,” Berteau continued grimly. "We need to get to where the infection has gone—into his organs and his blood stream.”

“What are you saying, doctor?” Porthos asked cautiously.

“I’m saying that I’m going to reopen the incision in his side and pack the entire area next to his kidney full of a garlic, honey and butter-herb poultice,” informed the doctor.

“You can’t be serious, doctor,” d’Artagnan said in disbelief. “That’s the only option left? This is your best idea; this is it?”

“Hold on, d’Artagnan,” Aramis held up his hand to the young Gascon, finding the suggestion intriguing. “That just might work.”

“The function of the kidneys is to filter and clean waste from the blood as it flows back to the heart, am I correct doctor?” Aramis inquired.

“You are correct, Aramis,” said M. Berteau.

“So, you’re thinking that if we insert a poultice next to the kidney, perhaps it will leach the infection from the kidney, and ultimately, the blood circulating through the organ?” Aramis stated rather than questioned.

“That sounds crazy,” d’Artagnan said. “Are you sure it will even work?”

“No, I’m not certain it will work, my young friend,” said the doctor grimly. “But if it doesn’t. . .”

“If it doesn’t work,” Aramis intervened, “there’s nothing left to try, d’Artagnan. We don’t have any other option at this point. Though I do have a question, doctor Berteau,” Aramis pressed.

“Yes, Aramis?”

“You mentioned reopening Athos’ right side to access his kidney,” Aramis stated. “What about increasing his chances by accessing the second kidney?”

“In other words,” Aramis continued, “let’s open him up on his left side as well. Is this a feasible option, doctor?”

“Aramis, are you out of your mind? You can’t seriously be suggesting that they cut into perfectly healthy flesh with the hope that this plan will work!” d’Artagnan said, incredulous.

“Do you have a better suggestion, Doctor d’Artagnan?” Aramis snapped.

“Hey, we’re not going to help Athos any if we start fighting with each other again,” Porthos stepped in. “I’m no doctor, d’Artagnan, but we’re all out of options. I don’t know what else they can do for him but this is one last option we have to try.” Porthos paused, not wanting to finish, yet he knew he had to.

“It’s either we try this or we watch him die,” Porthos stated with a frown. “Athos may die anyway, but we have to know that we did everything possible to save him.”

“If the good Lord still wants to take him, at least he didn’t go without a fighting chance!” Porthos finished.

 

The silence in the room was thick as each contemplated the gravity of the situation. Athos’ life, literally, hung in the balance of one impossible life or death decision.

“We double his chances by using the poultice on _both_ kidneys. We have his kidneys do the work at pulling that infection from his blood because what we are doing right now is not working.” Aramis motioned to Athos while glancing at everyone in the room for possible rebuttal.

The two physicians glanced at each other and shrugged, with M. Molyneux nodding affirmation. “I see no other viable option at this point; it’s either this or nothing.”

“Agreed M. Molyneux, we must prepare for surgery,” M. Berteau decided. “Cécile, I will need you to fetch Jean-Luc; I have a list of supplies that we will need in order to proceed.”

“I can help Cécile get some things too,” offered Porthos. “What do you need?”

“The list is quite long, I’m afraid, Porthos,” Doctor Berteau said. “Cécile, will you write these things down so we make sure that nothing is forgotten, please?”

“Yes, doctor,” Cécile said while grabbing paper and ink. “I’m ready.”

“Alright, let me see,” Berteau began. “We will need the honey, garlic, turmeric, butter, wine and vinegar, linen strips, bandages, gauze, lemon or limes, oregano oil, my medical bag and tools, and plenty of boiling water and cold water. Did you get all that, my dear?”

“Yes, doctor,” answered Cécile.

“Mon Dieu,” d’Artagnan exclaimed. “Why don’t we just bring up the entire pantry while we’re at it?”

“D’Artagnan, if you can’t keep your smart comments to yourself. . .” Aramis warned.

“Or what?” d’Artagnan challenged, calling his bluff.

“Gentlemen, please,” M. Molyneux interrupted impatiently. "We don’t have time for this.”

“May I suggest,” Molyneux continued, “that each of us fetch a portion of these items--so we may get started that much sooner?”

“Great idea, doctor,” Porthos said as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

 

The group divvied up the supplies, each scattering to retrieve their prescribed list—all except d’Artagnan who was left alone with Athos.

 

Taking the older Musketeer’s hand in his own, d’Artagnan began to pray, “God in Heaven, I’ve never been much of a praying man, but I don’t know where else to turn,” he said with a shaky voice.

“As you know, it doesn’t look promising for Athos. We’re on our last resort, with no other options left to save his life,” d’Artagnan paused.

“This is the most insane plan I’ve ever heard suggested, but what else is there left for us to do? You haven’t exactly been helping us out down here!” he said angrily.

“When I was riding beside Athos on the road, he mentioned—several times—how stupid this whole idiotic decoy plan was. He was worried about going into Torfou. You could’ve stopped all of this from happening then, but instead. . . here we are!”

“I’ve never been so afraid in all of my life. What will we do—what will I do—if we lose Athos?” d’Artagnan’s voice broke. “How can I go on being a Musketeer without him?” he cried.

“You helped me when I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to walk again, so may I ask that you help Athos the same way you helped me?”

“I haven’t asked that much from you, but I have never wanted anything more than this, than Athos’s life!” d’Artagnan pleaded.

“I would gladly trade my own life for Athos’ right now, if you would allow it. I’m sure the other two would rather have Athos around than me anyway—to keep _The Inseparables_ together.”

“Athos’ life is more valuable than my own,” d’Artagnan choked out through his tears.

 

Just then, Aramis entered the room having overheard the last part of d’Artagnan’s prayer. “That is _not_ true,” Aramis said softly.

D’Artagnan jumped at the unexpected voice, “Dammit, Aramis!” he yelled angrily.

“Do you really think I’d rather have Athos with me—with us—than you?” Aramis questioned.

“In all honesty, yes I do, Aramis.”

“Well, you’re wrong, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said matter-of-factly. “I don’t want to choose between either of you; and I shouldn’t have to. I want _both_ of you by my side as Musketeers--as brothers.

D’Artagnan shook his head, saying nothing.

“Ever since you stormed into the garrison looking for a fight with Athos, I knew you were something special.” Aramis smiled at the memory.

“It takes a man of courage to stand up to men of Musketeer caliber the way you did—that took guts. I’ve been impressed with you ever since,” Aramis admitted.

“You never told me this before,” d’Artagnan said quietly, tears welling in his eyes.

 

“Haven’t had a reason such as this where we bare our souls to each other in the face of death until now either.” Porthos said from the doorway, his arms full of supplies.

“How long have you been standing there?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Long enough,” Porthos answered.

"D’Artagnan,” Aramis began, “we’re strongest when we’re four brothers. Each of us has a uniquely strong attribute, but together, we each contribute a quality that makes us, as a group, more formidable.”

“And we’re going to have to be realistic,” Porthos added. “God forbid, if Athos doesn’t make it, we’re going to have to be prepared to carry on somehow without him. We’ll only be able to get through this if we stick together.”

“I’m _not_ going down that road, Porthos,” Aramis retorted, shaking his head. “I refuse to even consider that possibility.”

“Athos is going to get better—this is going to work—it has to!” Aramis exclaimed.

“‘M-Mis,” Athos called, causing everyone to turn toward the man on the bed who, until now, had been sleeping.

Aramis took Athos’ hand, “I’m here, brother.”

“T-t-take. . . c-care. . . of. . . each. . . oth’r d-don’t. . . fight.” A lone tear sprung from the corner of Athos’ left eye, rolling across the bridge of his nose to drip onto the pillow.

 

“Oh God, don’t do this, Athos!” Aramis panicked. “Don’t go there!” Aramis’ eyes scanned with utter panic over Athos’ face. He shook his head in denial and fear, refusing to accept a farewell speech.

“I can’t do this! You are _not_ doing this to us, Athos. Do you hear me?” Aramis ordered.

“You’ve got to fight, dammit!” Porthos growled. “Don’t let this infection beat you.”

“Please, Athos, fight this with everything you’ve got left—don’t give up on us!” d’Artagnan pleaded.

Suddenly, Athos stiffened and began to seize, the convulsions sending tremors throughout his body. Aramis threw aside the pillows to brace Athos’ head.

Molyneux and Berteau returned to the room to see their patient seizing and rushed into action. “Molyneux, where’s the cold water? Bring me a cold cloth to sponge him down with now!” Berteau ordered.

Molyneux dipped the cloth in the cold water and handed it to Berteau; he then dipped another cloth to assist in cooling the patient. The doctors wiped their cold cloths over Athos’ face, neck and chest until the tremors slowed to only an occasional shiver.

Just as suddenly as the tremors began, Athos went motionless. His head lolled to the side, his limp hand dropped beside the bed.

The Musketeers stood frozen in place, suddenly unable to move. All stood—jaws open and eyes wide with panic--holding their breath in fear for Athos’ life.

 

“Doctor?” Aramis managed to croak, his throat constricted.

M. Berteau felt the neck, searching for a pulse. He let out the breath he was holding and cried with relief, “I have a pulse!”

A loud squeal of joy resounded in the sickroom, everyone releasing their breaths and pent-up tension with audible sighs of relief.

Aramis fell down to one knee and crossed himself, his head bowed in prayer of thanks.

Porthos doubled over at the waist with his hands resting on his knees, shaking his head side to side in relief.

D’Artagnan fell limply into the chair beside the bed and leaned over the bed in a crumpled heap, his shoulders shaking from relieved sobs.

“Okay,” M. Molyneux cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. "We need to get back to work; we must reduce his fever or surgery is out of the question.”

“We need cold water—immediately!” M. Berteau ordered everyone. “We will fill the tub with cold water, I will also add in the wine and vinegar to bring down his core temperature in the safest, yet quickest manner possible.”

 

Everyone set to gathering buckets of cold water to fill the tub. Finally, Porthos picked Athos up and carefully placed him into the tub of cold water. Though semi-conscious, Athos stiffened suddenly, and then began to weakly resist—as much as his strength would allow.

“Easy now, brother,” Porthos soothed softly, “you trusted me to take care of you in the water before, remember? I won’t let anything happen to you-- you’re going to be alright.”

 

At the first hint of Athos’ lips turning colors, M. Berteau ordered the patient to be taken from the tub and prepared for surgery.

After Athos was dry and no longer shivering it was time to begin. It was time for the final leap of faith.

 

M. Molyneux mixed together the dwale potion and helped Athos drink the anesthetic, with measured sips until finished. After Athos was asleep, M. Berteau took his scalpel to cut along the stitching of his previous incision on Athos’ right side. The physician laid open the side and with use of a probing tool, he searched until he located the desired organ.

With the assistance of Molyneux and Aramis, the doctors worked together in perfect harmony in a last-ditch effort to save the Musketeer’s life.

They took turns wiping away excess blood, keeping the incision open and clear. Doctor Berteau began to tightly pack the cavity with the life-saving poultice all around the delicate kidney.

Molyneux then brought the linen strips, soaked in wine and vinegar, to cover the poultice and open wound.

The same was repeated on the left side, but with a fresh incision being made in the location of the kidney—the same packing and wrapping done on the left side—until, finally, the surgery was over.

 

“Now all we can do is wait to see if he makes it. He will be on an hour-by-hour watch,” said Doctor Berteau. “We will check the poultice and change it every hour or two, depending on need. All of us should pray for healing—it can’t hurt.”

All three Musketeers kept constant vigil beside the bed. They sat watching their friend and brother, so still and pale, with bandages now covering three wounds on his fevered body.

Every hour the doctors returned to check on his condition, changing the poultice and dressing like clockwork.

 

Over time, Athos was becoming more aware, yet moving listlessly, and moaning in pain, mumbling indecipherable words.

“Athos? Athos, can you hear me?” Aramis held a fevered hand tightly in his own.

Athos moved his head side as he began to dream, “go in the trees. . . run. . . too many raiders!”

All three Musketeers glanced at each other with alarm. “Athos, we’re not in the forest anymore.” Porthos attempted to calm the distressed patient. “We’re safe—you’re safe now.”

“No. . . get ‘Mis ‘n d’Art'n to safety. . . go! Can’t come. . . mus’ stay.” Athos mumbled more incoherent fevered orders.

“He’s delirious due to the fever,” Aramis stated calmly. “He’s reliving everything that happened over again in his mind. We need to keep talking to him, reassure him that he’s safe.”

“I’m sorry. . . Porth’s. . . save. . . bro’trs.”

“Athos, I’m here. . . it’s Porthos. I’m safe; and you’re safe now too! It’s over—you saved us. Do you hear me, Athos? You saved us,” Porthos said, wiping at his wet eyes.

“‘Mis. . . don’t cry. . . over me. . . I did it. . . for you. I Love you. . . the pain. . . will end. . . in time. Don’t. . . quit. . . Musk’trs 'cause of me. Don’t leave. . . 'cause of me.”

 

At those words, Aramis suddenly went white as a sheet. The cup of tea he had been holding dropped to the floor, crashing into a thousand pieces across the floor. “Oh God. . .”

“‘Mis? What’s wrong? d’Artagnan asked, suddenly afraid.

“I n-need to get some air,” Aramis got up, swaying on his feet slightly.

Porthos jumped to his feet, “I’ll come with you,” he steadied Aramis.

“No, I want to be alone,” Aramis said. “I’ll just be outside in the courtyard for a while. I need to think,” he said, leaving the room in a rush.

 

“What in the hell was that about?” d’Artagnan asked. “Porthos? What’s going on? What just happened?”

“Aramis dreamed Athos died earlier.” Porthos informed d’Artagnan of all the details he knew about the dream. “Evidently, it was quite a vivid and realistic dream. He woke up screaming in terror, afraid Athos was dead. He really believed Athos was dead,” the Musketeer recalled sadly.

*****

**Outside In the Courtyard:**

Aramis walked outside to the courtyard, sitting on a bench he cradled his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. “Athos, my friend, I don’t know what is real anymore. . .”

“May I join you?” Cécile asked, sitting down next to the Musketeer.

Aramis didn’t answer, only the sound of soft crying muffled through trembling hands was heard.

Cécile rubbed his back softly. "You Musketeers must be very close. I’ve been watching how you treat Athos with such devotion and care,” she said with admiration.

“I’ve never seen that kind of love among friends before—I am so deeply touched by all of you,” Cécile paused.

“Please, don’t cry. . . Athos will be alright. You’ll see,” Cécile said. The nurse took Aramis’ hands, pulling them away from his face, smiling as she dried his cheeks with her handkerchief.

"Thank you,” Aramis sat up and smiled at Cécile. The medic's cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

 

Cécile wrapped her arm around Aramis as they sat on the bench talking for quite some time. They laughed and mulled over personal memories, learning they had much in common.

Time passed, each unaware how long they had been together on the bench. Finally, Cécile leaned into Aramis to whisper near his ear. "Are you going to sit out here all day or are you going back in there to support your brother, Athos?”

“You’re right,” Aramis smiled, “I need to get back up there.” Aramis stood, swaying on his feet slightly.

Cécile grabbed his arm, “I’ll walk with you. I want to make sure you don’t fall on that handsome face of yours,” she laughed.

They walked arm-in-arm back inside the château to just outside of Athos’ room. They paused, gazing at each other, reluctant to part.

Cécile let go of Aramis’ arm and gave him a soft kiss to his cheek. She then turned and ran down the hall then down the stairs.

Aramis smiled and stared down the hall, long after they had parted ways.

 

The medic finally entered the sickroom, where he was met by Porthos at the door. "Hey, about time you got back. He’s awake and has been asking for you.”

Aramis sat beside the bed, taking Athos’ hand in his own, “I’m here, brother.”

Athos opened his tired eyes, giving the faintest hint of a smile. "Was. . . worried ‘bout you. I’m not. . . leaving you. . . alone.” Athos’s eyes slipped closed, falling into an exhausted sleep.

“I was worried about you too,” Aramis smiled, his eyes watering. "I’m glad you’re not leaving us, brother; we need you here. All for one, remember?”

 

**Later:**

 

Cécile and Molyneux brought trays of food and drink for the Musketeers. They each knew this was going to be a long night of vigilance and worry for their ill friend.

The boys spent the night, sometimes quietly lost in their own private thoughts. Other times, laughing at old memories and tall tales. The doctors came in and out changing the poultice and bandages, without interruption, noting Athos’ condition and progress.

*****

Porthos sleepily looked at the tray of dishes and leftover food and laughed. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

“What?” d’Artagnan asked with a yawn.

Porthos took a fork from the tray and held it up to stare at it. “This looks just like the fork I used as my dueling weapon after I won at lansequenet in that tavern. I may have cheated. . . a lit’le.”

“You? Cheated? No. . .” d’Artagnan laughed.

"Athos said it wasn't a fair fight if I was unarmed. That fork happen' to be there so I grabbed it," Porthos laughed.

“That was when that guy took your sword, right?” d’Artagnan asked. “I remember you mentioned that one time before,” he smiled.

“Yeah, and I would’ve beat the guy too but Athos knocked him out. He was growing impatient, sayin’ we were late meetin’ with Aramis,” Porthos recalled.

“Before we left, I went to the table to collect my winnings and Athos saw the cards I hid in my sleeve,” Porthos said slyly.

“What did he do?” d’Artagnan asked.

“You know how Athos cocks his head to one side and give us _‘that look’?”_ Porthos demonstrated the question.

“Yeah, Athos does that all the time,” d’Artagnan and Aramis said in unison.

“Athos cocked his head and gave me that 'look.' He said, 'Porthos.' That's all-just my name-but it's the _way_ he said it. And the whole time, he's trying not to smile." Porthos laughed at the memory.

“Then Athos asked me where Aramis was,” Porthos continued. “I didn’t want to answer that but when I didn’t he said, ‘tell me he’s not that stupid.’”

Aramis laughed. "That was the time I had to jump out of the girl’s bedroom window just before Armand arrived. Bloody hell, that was a long drop down, two or three floors up. It wasn’t exactly the softest landing I’ve ever had,” he frowned.

 

“There was nothin’ soft about that time at his old house in La Fère when he punched me!” Porthos growled.

“Hell, I’m sorry about that, brother,” Aramis shrugged. “But it’s like Athos said, it’s the best way when dealing with you--we’ve learned from experience.” He reminded the brooding man.

“I think Athos enjoys punching me just a lit’le too much! He knew I couldn’t fight back and took advantage of the situation.”

“We were about to perform surgery on you, you fool,” Aramis joked. “Would you rather endure the pain of me cutting into you?”

“He could’ve given me some of that wine he had hidden away upstairs,” Porthos grumbled.

“We tried wine before,” Aramis snorted. “It doesn’t work, remember? That’s why knocking you out is the best option. Athos has a better punch than I do."

"Yeah, he can throw a good punch that’s for certain,” Porthos nodded

 

“Do you guys remember that challenge between the Red Guard and the Musketeers?” d’Artagnan asked.

“How could we forget?” Aramis and Porthos chimed in together.

“When Athos would spar with me, to help prepare me for the duel, I’d fall and he’d kill me. Or, he’d disarm me. . . and then kill me,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“We would go in circles,” d’Artagnan circling with his hands as he recounted the story. “All while we’re sparring, Athos is instructing me on how to be a better swordsman.

"God, I’m panting for breath and he’s not even breaking a sweat! He’s calmly talking away as we dueled like it was nothing to him.”

“It was nothing to him,” Aramis said matter-of-factly.

D’Artagnan glanced at Aramis, and then stared at the sleeping Athos. He shook his head and smiled. The young Musketeer replayed the lesson in his mind, remembering exactly how he felt that day.

“Getting Athos’ approval of my abilities as a fighter—as a swordsman—was all I ever wanted,” d’Artagnan said with a sigh.

“When I sparred with Athos, he always defeated me easily and miserably,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “I couldn’t keep up with his ability—and it was embarrassing. Do you remember, Aramis, when you and I dueled?”

“How could I forget? You really proved yourself that day, kid.” Aramis told d’Artagnan proudly.

“After I defeated you, I looked to Athos for his opinion. He gave me a nod of approval and smiled. God, that meant more to me than anything. Up to that day, I had never been more proud.”

“But then after I defeated the Red Guard’s thug at the challenge,” d’Artagnan paused.

“When Athos slipped the pauldron on my arm and gave me that pat on the shoulder--that was the proudest moment of my life,” d’Artagnan said, his voice cracking.

*****

 

“Oh God,” Aramis said quietly. He scrubbed both hands over his face and shook his head. He paused, covering his face with both hands.

“‘Mis?” Porthos asked with concern, “what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. . . I don’t know how to explain. . .” his voice trailed.

“Explain what, ‘Mis?” d’Artagnan asked.

Aramis jumped up from his chair, leaning on the back for support. He turned away from his friends to stare at the wall. “I could swear that I’ve had this _exact_ conversation before.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged quiet glances of concern.

“What are you talking about?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I’m getting strange feelings of dèjà vu. . . but that can’t be possible,” Aramis whispered.

“God, what the hell is going on with me?” Aramis asked aloud. “I don’t know anymore what is real and what isn’t.”

“Maybe I hit my head and I’m still caught in some bad nightmare of reality,” Aramis shook his head. “This isn’t real! Athos isn’t really lying there. . . he’s dead. . . I know he’s dead!”

“That’s enough, ‘Mis!” Porthos grabbed his friend by the shoulders to shake him. “Do you feel that? You are not dreaming! You are standing here in front of me—you are wide awake—and this is not a dream!”

Porthos led Aramis to Athos’ side. "Do you see Athos lying there? He’s breathing and he’s alive! When are you going to believe that this is real and everything you’re afraid of is only a dream? It was all a really, really bad dream, ‘Mis!”

 

“‘Mis?” Athos called, his eyes open and filled with concern.

“Athos?” Aramis looked down at his friend watching him. He reached down with a shaking hand to touch Athos’ face. “It’s real.”

Aramis partially collapsed over his friend. He put his own head to Athos’ and sobbed tears of relief. “Thank God. Thank you, God. . . thank you, God! Athos, I thought. . .”

“‘Mis, don’t cry anymore.” Athos pleaded, his own eyes filled with tears. A tear escaped, rolling sideways across his temple, disappearing into his brown hair.

“That goes for you too, then. No more crying,” he tenderly wiped away the tear.

 

Aramis’ eyes widened at the sudden realization that Athos’ face felt cooler and no longer fevered. “Athos?” the medic placed a hand across Athos’ forehead. He then moved both hands to cup his friend’s cooling cheeks.

He let out a laugh. "Mon Dieu, your fever is gone! Look, his fever broke!” He yelled to his brothers, though they were already on their feet beside the bed.

Porthos reached out to touch Athos on the face, having the need to actually feel it for himself. He then grabbed Aramis and pulled him into a tight hug. He swung him around in circles, his feet completely off the floor.

“His fever has broken!” Porthos yelled out, clapping his hands together with excitement.

“Can you believe it, ‘Mis?” D’Artagnan laughed like a giddy child.

 

Molyneux and Berteau entered the room at hearing the yelling and commotion, worried they would find a different outcome.

At finding the Musketeers cheering, M. Berteau checked over Athos. He nodded at finding the patient’s skin much cooler to the touch and no longer red with fever.

“Well, for the first time in days,” M. Berteau said with a proud smile, “I believe I can safely say that Athos is going to make it. He is not out of the woods yet, but I think the worst is over.”

"We should be able to clean out the poultice and close him up. . . in all three places," Doctor Berteau said cheerfully.

Molyneux clapped Aramis on the shoulder happily. "Thank God. Oui, thank God. Athos is going to be alright!”

*****

**Later:**

Athos continued to improve, with his wounds healing nicely. The physicians were impressed with his recovery. “It appears that soon M. Hurault may be allowed to have his house once again to himself,” M. Berteau said happily.

“M. Molyneux and I will return home,” the doctor continued. "I can see that Athos is in most capable hands with you here, Aramis.”

Aramis smiled, “thank you, doctor.”

“I do indeed believe that you missed your true calling, young man,” Berteau said candidly. “If you ever decide to leave the Musketeers, please be sure to look me up. I would be honored to have such a talented and capable physician like yourself working on my team.”

“Thank you, M. Berteau,” Aramis blushed. “I will certainly keep your offer in mind, if or when, I tire of the Musketeers. I certainly cannot stay a Musketeer forever.” He smiled as he shook the doctor’s hand.

“I’ll be taking my assistant, M. Molyneux, with me.” Gérard Berteau informed the medic. “However, Cécile will stay here until you leave, assuring you have the help you need.”

“Take care, Aramis.” M. Molyneux shook his hand. "It was a pleasure getting to know each of you gentlemen. It was truly an honor to work alongside you. Aramis, you are a talented physician. I hope we can work together again one day.”

“I would listen to M. Berteau,” Molyneux smiled. "He doesn’t hand out compliments like that to just anyone, trust me. You really impressed the doctor--and me as well. Farewell, may we meet again soon.”

“Goodbye, M. Molyneux. I too hope we will meet again. In fact, I’ll make sure that we do.” Aramis squeezed the doctor’s shoulder tightly as they shook hands.

*****

**In Aramis’ Room:**

“It’s hard to believe you will be leaving soon,” Cécile said sadly. “I mean, it’s good that you are going home and that Athos is recovering. But I’ve gotten so used to you being here.”

“I’m not that far away in Paris,” Aramis said warmly.

Cécile nodded but remained quiet. A tear rolled down her face, which she quickly tried to hide.

Aramis reached over to tenderly wipe away the tear. Leaning in to her, he kissed her softly on the lips. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” Aramis instantly apologized and turned away.

“Sorry, why?” she asked. The nurse turned his face back to hers, staring deeply into his eyes. Cécile bravely followed with a soft kiss of her own to his lips.

Aramis took Cécile into his arms, pulling her close. Their lips pressed passionately together, a longing finally realized, as they met in a slow and desirous kiss.

They pulled apart, as though coming up for air. Aramis allowed himself a moment to gaze at the woman in his arms. His eyes took in her beauty--her flawless alabaster skin, pink lips and large, sky-blue eyes. Her long blonde curls draped gracefully around her shoulders.

Cécile pulled Aramis close, her warm breath on his neck sent chills down his spine. Again their lips found each other, locking with such deep and heated intensity it took his breath away.

Cécile pushed away, giggling and blushing like a schoolgirl.

“What’s so funny?” Aramis asked as he caressed her cheek.

“Your mustache was tickling my skin.” The nurse ran her fingers over his mustache and beard softly. “I feel so happy in this moment, yet my heart is breaking. I know that you will be leaving in the morning.”

“Oh, Cécile, I wish that we had more time,” Aramis whispered. “I want you so much." He pulled her in for one more electrifying kiss, leaving him dizzy with desire.

“I must go,” Cécile pulled away. “I have to get some things for M. Hurault today; but I will see you off before you leave in the morning.”

She gave Aramis one more short kiss to the lips again. . . and again. . . and again before tearing herself away and running down the hallway.

 

Aramis sat for a while thinking of the past several days in disbelief. "This can’t be real. . . I must be dreaming again.”

“I can’t be this happy. There’s always a catch--I don’t ever get the girl. Not me.”

His mind recalled bits and pieces of his dream. Still, he couldn't quite figure out what was real and what wasn't.

_I’m not allowed to be happy—there’s always a price to pay and it’s expensive. I have to give up one love to gain another._

_Cécile’s kisses cannot be real—I only found her love after Athos. . ._

“God, what is it that has me so troubled?” he wondered. “I need to see Athos, make sure he’s alright.”

*****

**Last Morning at Château:**

Your Captain Tréville and the Musketeers are here to escort you home, gentlemen,” M. Hurault informed the four men.

 

“Porthos, since you brought us all here, with each of us not consciously aware of what happened once we got here. . . may I ask, where is my doublet, weapons belt and sword?” d’Artagnan asked.

“I would like to ask the same as d’Artagnan. Since I have seen neither of my belongings either.” Athos inquired.

“Your things are in the extra bedroom, next to Athos’ room.” Porthos informed the men. “But. . .”

“But what, Porthos?” Athos asked suspiciously.

“I’ll. . . um. . . just let you see for yourself.” Porthos said as he led the way to the room.

On the large bed the four swords were placed side-by-side, neatly in a row. Nearby on a table were the weapon belts, main-gauches, harquebuses. As were the gloves, cloaks and hats.

What Porthos didn’t want d’Artagnan and Athos to see were their doublets—each cut into two parts.

 

At the sight of his destroyed doublet, d’Artagnan’s jaw dropped and eyes widened in shock. “No, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Damn,” Athos demurred. “Do you know how long it took me to break in this doublet?” He scowled as he picked up the separate pieces.

“Sorry ‘bout that but the doctors didn’t have time to do anything but cut them off. They were in a lit’le bit of a hurry,” Porthos apologized.

The only sound in the room was Aramis' soft giggling.

Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan donned their uniforms, complete with assembled weapons belt—sword on the hip—finishing with blue cloaks, gloves and hat. Athos only gathered his belongings since he would be riding in the wagon, lying down. Everyone helped carry Athos’ belongings to the wagon.

*****

“I’ve been dreading this day--this moment--for so long.” Cécile said through her tears. “I told myself that I wasn’t going to cry. . .”

Aramis took her face in his hands, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He soothingly whispered in her ear. “We’ll see each other again soon, I swear to you. I’m not letting you get away so easily.”

Cécile laughed, “I was going to say the same to you.” She smiled as fresh tears fell down her cheeks.

Aramis pulled her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her body. He kissed her lips gently, sweetly, passionately. . . until he had to let her go as it was time to leave.

“Goodbye, Aramis.” Cécile turned away, running into the château, sobbing into her handkerchief.

 

Aramis turned to find his three brothers, and his captain, watching him. Their jaws were dropped open in surprise.

D’Artagnan laughed. "We didn’t realize that you two had feelings for each other. . . you’ve kept that well hidden. Or, you just move really fast, mon ami!”

“‘Mis, when did you? How did you. . .?” Porthos shook his head. "Aw hell, never mind. Glad you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

“Damn, after everything we’ve been through these last few days—being happy is all that matters!” Porthos laughed and clapped Aramis on the shoulder. Turning away, he climbed onto his horse, ready to leave.

 

“I really wish that you would ride in the wagon, d’Artagnan,” the captain said. “I’m not so sure you are ready to ride just yet.”

“Captain,” d’Artagnan protested. "The wagon ride home will be worse than sitting on my horse. I can manage the distance. However, I’m worried about Athos, he might be better off on horseback also.

“No,” the captain refuted the suggestion. “He will be in the wagon—horseback is too dangerous for him yet.”

 

Athos was in no condition to protest the captain’s orders. He had no choice but to willingly allow himself to be loaded into the wagon on a stretcher.

The wounded Musketeer knew the captain would order him straight to the garrison infirmary—a place he thoroughly detested—once they arrived in Paris. He would rather have finished healing here at the château. . . but the king wanted his Musketeers home.

Orders must be obeyed. _This sounds all too familiar._

 

Aramis sat beside Athos in the wagon for a moment, deep in thought. “I think it will be best if I ride with you in the wagon, just in case you require my help. I’ll harness my horse to the back of the wagon.”

“Fine, whatever you think is best,” Athos said, yawning.

“I’ll go let the captain know,” Aramis walked away to speak with the captain to get permission to ride with Athos. He returned to the wagon a few minutes later.

 

The Musketeer medic smiled at his friend, closing his eyes, suddenly unable to speak.

“What is it, my friend?” Athos asked.

Aramis opened his mouth to speak but decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

 

_I could swear that in the dream, I saw Athos leave here in a carriage. . . but it was adorned in black. I saw that same carriage in a funeral procession going to Notre Dame Cathedral._

Aramis quickly shook the horrible thoughts from his mind, “God, I can’t. . .” he paused.

“You can’t what, ‘Mis?” Athos asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

 

“I, um. . . I can’t believe we’re finally going home—all of us—together.” Aramis quickly improvised rather than reveal his awful vision. “This nightmare—this entire horrific nightmare—will soon be over, finally.”

Aramis’ eyes watered at the chilling memories of the last few days—the vivid fear he had of d’Artagnan and Athos not surviving their wounds.

 

_God, how could I have made the trip back home accompanying their lifeless bodies to be buried in a cold grave?_

“What a mission, right?” Athos said absently, as he clung to Aramis’ shoulder.

“Well, there is at least one good thing that came out of this," Aramis paused. "From you getting wounded, that is.”

“What could possibly be good about me getting wounded?”

“Because of you, my friend, I think I’ve found the _one._ Cécile, she’s the one!” Aramis smiled happily.

“In that case, I’m happy to oblige.” Athos said, his eyes growing heavy. “Though, I would have preferred an alternate method of your meeting, my friend.”

“Oh,” Athos suddenly remembered something in his pocket. “The captain found this in your satchel and thought I might need it for the ride home.”

Athos gave a sly smile, “I think you might need it more than me.” Athos tossed to Aramis a small brown drawstring bag, still full of aromatic feverfew.

“Why would I need this?” Aramis asked, confused.

Athos pointed to the fresh scars on Aramis’ head, the bandages having been removed days ago. “Thought you might have a headache,” he joked.

“Thanks a lot, my friend,” Aramis said sarcastically.

 

He looked down at the bag in his hand, shaking his head as the memories took him back to the beginning of this dreadful trip.

“To think it all began with a headache. . .”

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we finally reached the end of this mega-long story; wasn't planning on it being like a short book!  
> Hope you all enjoyed reading it! I must admit, I fell in love with the characters in this story (besides the 4 lovely Musketeers) and feel compelled to do a few spin-off stories. I would love to see more of the Aramis and Cécile romance!! I believe a romance would be captivating and fun--let's have Aramis finally get a love interest that doesn't have strings attached..for a change!  
> Also, I still want to do a one-shot of Porthos having nightmares of the bodies in the forest!
> 
> I'm also thinking of maybe doing another one-shot of their trip home to Paris and the aftermath/lingering health problems Athos may have due to his near-death experience. I've never been too fond of the TV show endings in which someone who was seriously hurt, just miraculously heals in an instant at the end. It's a process, people!
> 
> Anyway.....so now that we are at the end of the story, what did you think of the alternate ending? I didn't want an alternate ending that was completely out-of-the-blue different than the main body of the story. I thought it would be best to weave together the chapters into a seamless finish.
> 
> Question: Was Athos's death just a bad dream? Was ALL of Chapters 10 and 11 only a vivid picture of what Aramis was seeing in his dreams due to severe head trauma?  
> Interesting theory. Perhaps it was all just a dream....but I'll leave that to your own imaginations!!  
> At least we ended this story happily, knowing that the boys--ALL 4 of them--are going home together! And Athos is healing....and very much ALIVE!!
> 
> Thanks for reading, my friends!

**Author's Note:**

> I did a challenge drabble (for International Fanworks Day) which gave me the prompt/idea to fill in the background for readers, called _Cheating_. However, now I think the drabble will be the alternate ending instead. This story will be what really happened during that fateful mission to Orléans. 
> 
> Stay tuned for an alternate ending to _Double Trouble_.
> 
> If you like my story, please leave a comment, I would love to hear from you! Thanks for reading!


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